It is called ‘chasing’ for a reason.
There is a predatory feel to it. You first identify, and then track. You familiarise yourself with their patterns and movements. You wait for the ideal time, and then pounce! Hence the sense of achievement.
The euphoria of success, a congratulatory victory in the air. The pursuit is always the finale, the climax.
They don’t tell you that it’s just the beginning.
What follows is Book – keeping.
Debit what goes out. Credit what comes in.
That day, you said that. Cha-ching!
But I didn’t reply at all. Cha-ching!
See how tolerant I am. Cha-ching cha-ching cha-ching!
We kept account. Like hardworking gnomes at Gringotts. Carefully keeping score, tallying balance sheets, checking for discrepancies and misappropriations.
What follows is strategy and maneuvers. And what maneuvers they were! Jose Mourinho would stop and shake our hands. A careful twist here, an innocuous pulling out of context there. Just the right amount of pressure applied at exactly the right time, leading to volcanic results.
What games they were! Mind games and soul games. Punching harder and lower and harder and lower till it became cathartic pleasure. Checking how low we could go, and then reaching that bitter spot. Only to punch harder and lower the next time.
Some people bring out the best in each other. And some the absolute worst. The most vicious, the most vile. We were the latter.
How strange it is. Just a few months ago two people are absolute strangers. Checking each other out in their beds, on their smartphones. Swiping through information put out there. And then suddenly, it is a splash of water and boiling lava at the same time.
At some point of time in life, we can say a few things about ourselves with utter confidence. We know our bodies – the tweaks, pain and pleasure points. We know our mind,our strengths and weaknesses. If there is one thing I know with absolute certainty, it is that relationships are not my cup of vodka.
In fact, it was a fling I was chasing. But there is no warning when a fling spills over stealthily into a relationship, like a hand reaching out in the dark. There is no notification – ‘You have used up 90% of your fling balance. You will henceforth be charged’.
And as always, we had to walk down the dark lane again. Like dropping acid and watching the stars spin you lay on the grass. Only to wake up the next morning and realise the trip is fading. That the tiles that seemed to swerve seductively last night are regular tiles – off-white, with crumbs of dirt around the edges.
I had tried to remove some of the skeletons in the closet. I ended up taking their place. You’ll probably find me standing reluctantly when you open the closet again.
For how it is love if we don’t claw into the other’s heart and yank out the soul? How is it love if we haven’t changed the other person permanently? Left wounds that will singe for a while and then retire as scars.
For now though, my beloved, we must part. For we aren’t meant to be. We will be memories in each other’s heads. We’ll be monsters waiting in the dark, slashing angrily every time the closet is opened. Only to be shut off again.
And that, my love, is how it crumbles.
(Featured image courtesy: http://www.ascendyourlimits.com)