On Love, Loss and never being enough to reach that White Horse

July 04,2024

Two cups of coffee at bedtime, one usual and one black, because that's how he said he liked his coffee. Eyes bloodshot red because I could not afford to sleep, just to wake up to that all consuming emptiness - was literally the state I was in a month ago, when inevitably I was denied of the companionship of another cold desolate heart. Forgive my pretentious writing- for I tend to hide beneath these word woven cages, I've heard, but when I didn't, I paid a hefty price- the loss of identity, you call it. For me, it felt miserable to be lukewarm, in mere three days or how many months was it? I really don't want to count.

Then, I committed the worst sin I could've, at that time; I started reading 'White Nights' by Dostoyevsky, those monologues, coughed up at some bench near a river at Petersburg, begged me to write this tale. Dear reader, I confess I still am not able to complete that book, even though I've claimed healing and have supposedly ascended to the moral ground of "The High Priestess" Stevie Nicks talked about in that interview once.

I listened to all the songs he recommended me- I didn't liked any, but pretended to do so. I didn't liked how things would turn hostile, when he had too much on his plate- no one told him he was being dumb. He didn't wanted to talk even when I pleaded, but why would he want me to leave my friends then? Why did he promised to treat me like a queen but it all ended up with vicious vulgarity? to put it simply I don't know. I could ask his bestfriend the twentieth time, "why?" and "what happened?" but 2+2 never equaled four. This is not to say I was never at fault- yes, I was- I was never good enough - at least in his eyes, to ever get to reach the white horse. The perfect girl would be quiet, she'd sit there silently and wait for him at the table but I could not, and I don't think I can ever have that in me, even now.

So she ran - the only thing she has gotten good at since she was a child. But this time the door of the house was open and her friends, waiting at the porch, with their arms stretched out wide, for her, as she stood on the pavement and thought to herself, "but I wasn't worth waiting for" and "why wouldn't they toss me aside?"

Answer to that the girl still doesn't know, but what she knows is, that love is never good enough, which threatens to topple your world aside and leaves you out bereft in the rain, but graciously lets you still have the view of that perfect life, from his window.

Dear reader, I hope you never make the mistake I did, but even if eventually you do- no matter how tainted in shame and worthlessness you are, you are still good enough to be you- and some day you might see a perfect white horse again, with a promise of an impeccable view. You could climb up to it and you might get your promised perfect picket fence, would you still build your garden up? because when the butterfly flies away,

WHO ARE YOU THEN?

I'll go back and read my book now. Dear reader, treat yourself gently, you will always be loved more than you'll ever know.

Until then I remain-

Faithfully Yours, 

Mahi Joshi