You Were Just Like Everybody Else (Mea Culpa)

Rend the clothes of your heart to grow

- Greybuck

Beads of sweat lay on the forehead of a tired man who for all his life had wanted peace – peace in love or its pursuit, peace in a career’s success or its search, peace in every possible situation of his life. So many times he reached the finish line and failed to cross. Nevertheless, the will to keep going burnt brightly in his eyes, especially under the sheen of his lamp.

With his hand still gripping tightly the pen, he trudged away on the light-radiated sheets of the journal. 

“Come on, boy, you can do this; you’re almost at the finish line.”

His grip, reinforced by the voice of his mind, becomes almost vice-like as if mirroring the encouragement.

From the perspective of an onlooker, he could pass for a master craftsman fixated on the makings of his pièce de résistance among his venerable collection of designs. That was how engrossed he was.

“Do you know what was the final nail in the coffin? It was not you dismissively denying what was obvious to your coworker. Neither was it your veiled yet apparent disgust at my enthusiasm to speak to you. No! For me, it was realising I was just like everybody else in your life. I was just another Tom or another Harry. That did it for me.

It went against everything I had believed in since the moment I laid eyes on you. My very core was shaken, if I remember correctly. I had an experience where the whole of my body felt like it had been levelled by a megaton bomb. The explosion expressed itself clearly as chinks in the armour, my skin, presenting themselves as stress-induced wrinkles on my face. The implosion alone was eerily reminiscent of Oppenheimer’s contrivance of doomsday in action. As insensitive as it sounds, the outlook of my world and that of the denizens of Hiroshima bore a similitude in expression and appearance. 

I remembered how profoundly touched I was by what happened. I was led to make a vow. In groaning pain removed from physical influences, I said,, “Never again will I go through this again,” yet here I am reliving it on the pages of the journal. Life has a funny way of spinning the block. When it does happen, it feels like an encore sprung on you obnoxiously, always catching you off guard.

You had always been the Kohinoor, the prized jewel among the lot. I believed I was the one to see and appreciate you for you. Our connection was fireworks. It felt unnatural how easily everything progressed at such an electric pace. Every interaction was a shooting star across the skies. Every conversation? A front-row seat to witness the birth of a galaxy. It was so fresh and untainted in its occurrence that I had to pinch myself every time to check if it was real. Imagine my bewilderment at discovering that what I thought was special and unique to only me was familiar to everyone who knew you. You made everybody feel this way. Like I was not special at all. “Ei Awurade! (Oh God)”. I facepalmed at my naiveté and self-importance. 

Hey, I own up. It is my fault. I have pored over it on countless recollections, yet I have never managed to completely absolve myself of any culpability. Truthfully, if anything, I should say inasmuch as we were both complicit, I was the instigator, the fuel to this conflagration. With every recount of events, I am morosely resigned to how cavalier and blinded I was while staring off into nothing. Whenever I snap back to the now, I beat my breast furiously. I have no one but myself to blame. 

Why did I for a moment even deem you worthy to be pedestalised? How did I exaggerate the exchanges? Why did I completely overwrite the glaring signs I saw? What made you the sum of my search for love? Was it merely a physical attraction? Was it a new form of lust that clouds and distorts, carrying one on a false journey of true love? Was it the majestic sway or contortion-like sashaying of your person? Was it my inability to sense only friendship where I thought romance blossomed? 

One day I may be rid of all these. Maybe even today.

I should be angry, flare up and just be infantile in my remonstration with what I have been handed so many times. Matter of fact, I’m well within my rights to call you out for your underhandedness. It is sincerely pathetic on my part that I cannot. Ah! I am not even stricken by a bout of anagapesis for you. I still hold something something for you in my heart; however, it no longer yearns for you like the deer thirsts for water. 

The scales have fallen,, and my eyes are clearer than they have ever been. Whatever it was, it it has morphed into the catalyst for my freedom. Finally, the gate that had held me in captivity – a cage fashioned by my wilful yet hopeful blindness – has been burst wide open.  I am free,, but damn! Excuse the expletive. If only I had heeded the very first time I noticed the same telltale signs. 

I have only to repeat my very own Confiteor and forgive myself for this almost uncanny and repetitive sequence of events – this sin. The sin of always believing quickly, loving without restriction so early without ever verifying sufficiently. 

You came into my life just like everybody else, with a different vibe unique to everybody else.

But like everybody else, I found out too quickly. That you were just like everybody else.”

With a deadpan look at the final sentence, Buddy sank deeper into the chair,, releasing his tight grip on the pen – an indication of catharsis. He felt lighter,, almost as if he had just dropped a heavy weight off his shoulders. He becomes instantly aware of his surroundings and,, with a newfound spring in his step, turns to face what awaits him.