Une vie à t'aimer

Here I sit, re-reading the last post before I stopped writing here back in 2013. In so, so many ways - I’m still the same person. After all… the feelings still remain. I know exactly how I felt when I wrote those words, I know how ardent the love I carried within me, I know how bleak the despair of her absence. And the love burns still, and the absence grows increasingly so. I’m not the same person who wrote those words : I remember him as an echo, a distant mirage of myself, that is at once far from me and incredibly close. I make promises to myself : I won’t think of her. I won’t write her name. I won’t remember what once was. This, all this, and more, I promise, I promise, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die. 

Promises are lies. I can no more do any of that than the sun can stop shining. When I lie, I say the truth. When I make a promise, at least one unto myself , or at least one such as these, I know I’m fully intending to break it, even if at the moment I do it, I may not be intending to do so. But what can I do other than smile a silly smile, curse myself ever so slightly, ah you stupid old so and so, you should really know better by now… but really : I haven’t had a choice in many years. I may have, in fact, stopped believing in it. 

Arrête de m’aimer, je t’aimerai toujours.

Toujours.