A dwelling on the past

Did not the world seem to implode when she left me? Certainly.

But time has remedied the pain that had once so relentlessly seared my heart, and I can now barely recall any of it. I still leaf through those pleasant memories (for such exciting and euphoric ones are often impregnable against the ageing of the mind); sometimes longing to relive them and sometimes wondering if I would really be better off if she were still with me.

Curiously, the longer I let my thoughts dabble in the pool of past, the more I found myself being able to discern the hairline cracks within our relationship, the malignant flaws to which I had blinded by passion, and the discord between our characters that I saw as only natural. Ours was one fraught with portents; bound for a disastrous dead-end from the very start. Of course, the signs had showed in our petty conflicts and dissimilar interests, but because we had believed ourselves to be so madly in love with each other (or at least I had believed myself to be with her), we smothered the caveats, reminding and convincing ourselves that these are all but tests which if we should surmount with adamance, our relationship shall be made stronger and more lasting. Passion had us lying to ourselves.

I see now the deceptive veil so clearly when before I had naively thought it part of my vision. And I contend that I am in a far better disposition now; not because she and I are no longer together, but because I have learnt a great deal from the entire experience, drawn from it a knowledge that through no other means can be attained, and because I know now what love really means.


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