Do you want to see a grown man cry? Look no further. Here I am, ready to entertain you with my misery. I have been defeated by time and circumstance. The battle is lost. Lonely tears, streaming down my face; the salty taste of karma in my mouth.
I have spent three years on the run. I ran, fast, away from them all. Closed up, keeping feelings at bay. “Casual.” Terrified of boring Sundays, planning dinners and coupley activities. Afraid of locking myself up in a relationship and missing out on the endless repertoire of other women in the world. Of other lives to live and warm places to hide from my demons.
Women. They paid for all my sins. The Moroccan took the worst; the full-frontal assault of my stupidity, carelessness and self-destructive driving force. But she had the strength to leave in the end, by the time our 10 month affair was holding -barely- by the thin thread of the affection I hadn’t destroyed yet. Until I did.
After my impeccable track record of fuck-ups, how can I ask for anything? What does life owe me, but dying alone? Yet, here I weep. Stripped naked from my usual cynicism and my hardened, thick skin; I contemplate a new glance of love, vanishing in the distance. Physically and mentally exhausted. Emotionally beaten up. For yesterday was a memorable Saturday and the longest date of my life. All odds were against me and, for the most part, I lost. But it didn’t end there. Experiencing her shook me, deeply. It awoke something I believed had died within me: hope.
But then, what? Is there even a “then”?
Karma is a bitch. And a thousand years of apologies won’t wash away the pain I brought to the lives I entered. Do I deserve anything other than this? This feeling of loss, the aftermath of yesterday’s journey between the sheets and inside our souls? Maybe not. But this newfound hope tells me otherwise. “There will be a second chance.”