Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Treasure or trash?

I just stumbled onto all my correspondences with my ex-boyfriend during the period when we were dating. It's weird reading how much someone misses you and loves you and longs for you with a name that is not Paul's. (Not to mention the dirty sex descriptions; it's like being molested by Father Time.)

I can speak now about my former relationship with a clarity I didn't used to possess, but I've also forgotten that I'd actually had a different life altogether with someone else. In a different city. Under different circumstances. With a social circle now disbanded.

We'd lived together, spent two years together, bickered, fought, and broke each other's belongings together. And yet, I can't recall the visceral force of the near-daily rage that passed between us. Like the River Styx, crossing it meant death and ironically, the only escape. So then, what's there to reclaim by reading them?

But read them I did.

A few passages in and I could already feel the discomfort creep up on me. Like the skin that develops when you boil milk, it appears when you momentarily stop paying attention to what you had intended to do. What scares me is how similar my ex's frequent romantic proclamations are to Paul's (at least on paper) and that parallel blows my mind, knowing how different this relationship is compared to the last. (The difference, of course, is that this time, I return those feelings.)

But I suppose we can only dissect the veridity of love in hindsight.

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