Monday, July 6

I Think There’s A Film About This

IT’S STRANGE, I THOUGHT, that during a break-up one tries so intensely to destroy their own memories. After all, a break-up is not a particular moment, but a period of time, a stretch of time, with neither a distinct end nor beginning. Perhaps it begins with you starting to fall out of love – gradual, yet reparable – or, worse still, you have been fallen out of love with. That is when the break-up begins, softly at first, until the weight & magnitude strike you as deftly as they can. Then you are in the full tumult of the break-up. There is no telling how long it will last but one must do their utmost to stay above water, if they are of the sensitive type – and, o, I am! – then there are few worse times. If they are not, however, they will soon be back to normal; lucky them.
But, yes, during a break-up, memories are suddenly unwelcome dinner guests.
It is not easy to make memories, because they cannot be practiced or perfected, but occur of their own will, whenever they so desire. (If I remember my day now, at my desk, what stands out: the bandage on the hand of a girl, a boy pushing his duck toy down the street, viewing a potential flat, pulling a prank in the office. What will I remember? Probably only one of those.)
Memories of L—l and I are a by-product of the time we spent together. We never set out to make those memories, but they happened, forming later, gestating over time. Many memories are fond, many are not; the former are the ones I remember easiest: visiting London’s tallest building, her birthday, the statue garden, her first visit, certain fucks, sitting in the sun on the decking after work, our first new year’s eve together.
Now I am unhappy when I think of her, for a whole host of reasons, none by choice. I never wished it to end like this, although I always feared it would. If I catch myself thinking of her when I am lying in bed at night, I shake my head and sit up, wake myself as though I had been in the grips of an awful nightmare.
So now I try intensely to destroy my memories. All the good times, harmless & remarkable, are arduously erased to the best of my ability. It is not that I want to forget, but to remember is so very painful. A year & a half of my life is painstakingly filtered and ignored. All those moments of happiness, that have fluffed up my existence to make it even enjoyable, are now a source of sorrow.
I wish it were enough for me to leave the memories be, enjoy them and get on with my life, but I find that nigh on impossible; torturous, even. If walking through the city I arrive upon the site of a memory – which is not at all uncommon – I force the thing from my mind. It is not easy, it is not a walk in the park. Perhaps the only way to be rid of this nostalgic fever is to plant new memories in the graves of the old ones. Yes, that I shall try next, because this is getting me nowhere fast.

‘So tender are the nerves of nostalgia! They are likely to electrify themselves at the smallest of stimuli, at a fraction of love’s quivering. What will the journey hold for me in future? I see myself, rocking on the tube, somersaulting in thought and memory, alive, a little bit crooked, loved and loving.’

Written on our six-month anniversary: one year, one month and one day ago.

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