In the hopes of finding a suitable inspiration for this writing challenge, I revisited some of my writings from when I was fifteen. Needless to say, I cringed. But amongst the numerous humiliating pieces, I found one that conjured vivid memories and got me thinking.
We Don’t Get To Judge
28 September 2008
She rested her head on my shoulder as she poured her lungs out.
She opened her heart to me, revealing the truths; uncovering the lies.
All I could do was plaster on a rueful look.
She could have been thinking it was mere sympathy.
But trust me, it was empathy.
While sitting at the bus stop, she told me the reason for the divorce.
Something we had in common.
She shared something no one would want to hear; something too personal to be told.
Her sombre words might have been crushing, but she did not cry.
I always revered her for that audaciousness.
For the third time in my life, i was exposed to someone else’s melancholy.
She sat diagonally across me, spitting out words she had withheld for too long.
This time, I was not a mere listener
Because I opened…
I vocalised my story, the one that i had retained far too long myself.
But at the end of the day,
I don’t know you, like you do
You don’t know me, like I do.
Please don’t be too harsh on fifteen-year-old me. Trust me, this was one of the better ones. When I feel like embarrassing myself further, I’ll post a really cringe-worthy one in the future.
On a serious note, this piece got me thinking about these 3 ladies who played a significant role in my life at the respective point in time. What was it that led us astray; so distant? The only contact I have with them now is Facebook. Even then, we haven’t interacted in years. What happened? I guess we just don’t see it coming. Perhaps it’s circumstances; different institutions; or different life trajectories.
And then I realised that I probably wouldn’t want to actually reconnect with them. I wouldn’t want to have a ‘second chance’ with our friendship. I believe that most connections do tend to inherently come to term after running its course. And then they become cherished memories – perfect for romanticising; but terrible for recreating.