It’s the bloody past again!
Around midnight, the past stormed into our relationship, ruining our lovely dinnes and leaving emotional wreckage behind. No intimate partnership can endure that nervous system attacking virus called the past. The minute Jade’s tears began drawing parallel lines over her pale cheeks, pigmenting her eyes in red, I instantly repented bringing up the bygones. But it was too late. She stomped off towards the bathroom and locked herself inside. Every time we end up arguing, Jade heads straight into our tiny bathroom to spend time with her preferred relationship counsellor – our toilet seat.
Jade is my buzzing partner, who pierced into my life during the third semester of my Bachelor studies at Westminster University. While searching for a book on Freud along the south-facing corner of the second floor of our uni library, our shoulders collided inadvertently. Her books slipped from her hands, and when she scrambled to pick them up, the contents of her handbag splattered upon the wooden floor, generating an embarrassing clatter. Just as she began harvesting her personal possessions, her timid eyes radiated compassion, shyness and embarrassment. Protruding above her tartan swing dress, Jade’s face, upon which red poxes dwelled, didn’t reflect a certain gleam of beauty. Jade wasn’t the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
When Jade apologised in her melodic and tender Irish accent, I pointed at her sunglasses splattered above the timber floor. “It is the sunglasses you should apologise to, not me.”
“Shit!” Jade replied as she leashed a strange but a magnetic smile, peeping out her dimples.
She lifted her hand to cover her dental brace fixed to her teeth, revealing her bitten fingernails. Undeniably, she massacred them. There was hardly any surface left to utilise any nail varnish over them. After placing her belongings back inside her bag, Jade explained that she was anxious about graduating in journalism later that year.
“I hope that you are better with humans because it’s evident that things don’t enjoy your company so much,” I replied pointing at her bag. “Well, at least you’re graduating this year, whereas I am still trying to figure out if psychology is the right profession for me.”
Back then, unsettling doubts regarding my capacity to make right decisions incessantly kept my mind busy. Even though I regularly attended lectures, my attention span couldn’t stretch out over long periods of time.
My concentration performance resembled that of the dying cell phone batteries that run dead fast. Each time I sat down and opened a book to study, my feet immersed into frantic thumping. I even tried changing reading venues, gone to the uni library, city library, in the nearby Regent Street Park as well as Circle Line underground trains. The first, the second or even the third hour often wasted on merely staring on a single page, without being capable of getting on to the subsequent one.
Back then, I used to question everyone and everything, feeling too little and doubting too much, because of splitting up from Luna.
A lot of people tend to grieve their lost partner. I found myself mourning the cheerful Milo, whom I managed to exile out of my life. After splitting up from Luna, I lacked the hormones that produce the quenching desire to nurture another intimate attachment.
Eight months later, I met Jade, and we continue being madly deeply in love with each other. Being with Jade, I discovered that machines don’t differ much from humans because both require specific prerequisites to undertake particular operations. For a human to fall in love, one must the meet the fundamental requirement of not yearning for it.
Similar to a mirage, love fades away the moment you decide to chase it.
And similar to plants that begin rotting when you force too much water into them, loves fades away the moment you for force to many irrelevant questions on your partner. Why should I care what happened in the past? It wasn’t like I have a time machine that would enable me to travel in the past and change the present or the future.
Curiosity kills sleep, not cats.
Since midnight I dived straight into our water-cooled bed mattress and anchored myself to Jade’s bare body, relentlessly pursuing the dormant realm, and failed.
It’s 3:48 AM now, and beyond our bedroom windows, the spring sunlight grew brighter as it announced the birth of the 26th May of 2087. Conducted by the ghastly winds, the orchestra of the adjacent chestnut leaves generated soothing sounds, but they didn’t ease off my attempts to fall asleep. My itching eyes were wide awake and glued to the tilted rectangles that the sunbeams drew on our ceiling, before relinquishing my agitating efforts to transcend into the other life. I lurched out of bed and sat down to write down this peculiar letter, hoping that Jade’s tearful face will eventually obliterate out of the hard disk inside my skull.