I have always resented life for not being predictable. Or rather not having a definite ending. I’m a girl who reads the last few pages of an Agatha Christie first, because I just can’t stand the suspense. I need to know. I *need* to know the end, before I start the journey.
That’s a very unhealthy way to live. But now I realize having variables is better than having to be faced with certainty. How do you live without hope? Is there any joy in life when there is nothing to look forward to? It’s not as if hope dies in an instant. It’s a long-drawn process. Or so it seems like. You cry at first. A lot. But crying never solved anything and it does not solve this. So you try to cope with it. You think of all the worse things which happened and take a deep breath and think, this too shall pass. You have fallen out of love before, quite quickly in fact, so you can do this as well. And the moment you decide to fall out of love, your heart breaks. It does not break because of this particular sadness. It’s an accumulation of everything that has happened till now. All the hurt from the childhood years, and the misery of earlier relationships, and even the physical pain of ancient bruises. All of it crashes down together and you feel again the same things you felt at 20, when picking up a blade was an easier option. But you got over that, went on for seven more years and much worse, and thought you were done. Just to reach the same spot all over again, and all you think is why do I deserve this? And that is the worst thing you could say then, because it will lead to another avalanche. Al those tricks and underhand dealings that you laughed away with easy morals come rushing back. You realize that you are where you are now because you paid your way there. There is no one else to blame. And that is only certainty.