the hardest thing for me is to walk away from something good. the way i see it, when you walk away, when you end it, it becomes a memory. and memories can never compete with experiences. you have been one of the most difficult years so far because you’ve brought a series of endings.
today i’ll go through one of the toughest. i’ve been preparing for it, but i don’t think any mental exercise will compare to the real world version. it’s the ending of a tradition, a long standing ritual in my life, that i took for granted since i was a child.
sure i bitched and moaned that it felt like a burden at times, but i took solace in the fact that it would always happen. never before have i been so saddened by an inaccurate assessment i’ve made.
the worst part is, i don’t know how it will end. will the physical finale precede the mental closure? will there be a new ritual created in a vain attempt to quickly replace the old? will my saturday afternoons feel forever empty the way the mornings have become?
i’m off to discover what it feels like to say goodbye to familiarity and comfort.
you stimulated my palette, whetted my appetite for finer things, left me wanting more. i felt euphoria while you melted in my mouth. tasted blends that i felt beyond my tongue. coffee beans, chunks of hazelnut, traces of roasted almonds infused my senses with each tiny bite.
and beyond my usual favorites, there seemed to be more interesting concepts to explore. and explore i did. i discovered ginger and sour cherries blended with chewy liquors. pistachios with raisins and orange peels. pralines filled with champagne and cognac.
with each bite of these creative concoctions, i realized how little i enjoyed the deviation from my usual simple selection. the experience of eating the fruity cocoa blends was interesting but left my sweet spot unsatisfied. as i turned away from the funky flavors and looked around at your half empty display trays, it was glaringly obvious that not everyone had the same reaction.
there are two types of people who walk through your doors – those who enjoy chocolate the way it is, and those who need something new. the former is looking for satisfaction. the latter is simply looking for a story.
in love, as in chocolate, the paradox exists. but unlike the rows in your store, the two cannot exist together. it is not a question of quality. both are looking for the purest blends and finest ingredients. it seems to only be a question of priorities. the hazelnut chocolatier is out to complete the experience, to quench the yearning within every chocoholic for that perfectly predictable and filling taste. yet with every familiar bite, a new craving is created.
his nemesis wants the patron to be shocked at every turn – too perplexed by the newness to realize that eventually the chocolate is bastardized into a fruit smoothie with contradicting flavors. satisfaction is never met because it is never the goal. both the consumer and the producer know this on some level. yet many are so happy with the pursuit of the novelty, they form their own form of satisfaction.
and the paradox remains that both types of chocophiles find what the other is looking for. buon appetit to both.
you come and go in many ways. your beginnings are predictable – we all crave the energy of a new person in our lives and thus we are somehow or another always in search of that. your endings are what fascinate me.
it’s rare when one can pinpoint the exact moment you’ll end. sometimes we see it coming over time. interests differ, paths diverge, we move on. eventually, after you fade away, we review the hiccups. out loud they sound silly, but we argue that at the time they were actually significant. those endings are slow and fuzzy… we don’t know for sure it’s the last phone call we’ll pick up; we don’t realize it’s the last time we’ll split an order of pancakes and scrambled eggs over breakfast; we assume there will be another round of kamikaze shots and laughter.
but then sometimes, it’s so painfully obvious that during that moment when it’s ending, we can’t even bring ourselves to say goodbye because we want the last memories together to be good.
so even though she recognizes it’s the end, she spends her time taking in as much as she can. she scans the room looking for a misplaced bottle of lotion, a stained t-shirt tossed on the floor, a note sticking to his mirror that clumsily hangs on the wall. she needs these memories because it’s the last time she’ll be here. she doesn’t fool herself for a second. in his eyes she sees what’s on her mind, but she can’t turn away. she confronts defeat. she gives in to temptation. she throws away a friendship to make one last memory together. one that, she’ll discover later on, he doesn’t share because in his state of mind she doesn’t realize he’s really not there.
there was color and movement. there were multiple dimensions. there was us. now there is only me… and a friendship confined to a place in time, a memory in my mind.
we see you coming, but don’t have the strength to turn away. your stories, too interesting to ignore. your delivery, too entertaining.
yet your words are laced with self hate deeper than the pools of poseidon. your malice is more spiteful than the staff of hades. your powers of destruction rival the strength of zeus.
your touch is soft, hardly felt sometimes. yet unlike midas, you leave behind not a trace of gold, but a barren field full of emptiness.
you have destroyed relationships. reputations. realities.
i play a little game with you in my mind every time i see you directing traffic at a roundabout. in my head i count how many times i can mentally run you over. call it latent road rage, or maybe even pre-meditated social service.
so far, i do my best mental damage on thursdays. apparently, that’s when you and your cronies are out in full force doing your best to serve and protect by obstructing the natural flow of traffic, causing traffic jams, and generally pissing off every driver that is fortunate enough to drive through your lair. i wonder, sometimes, how many of those drivers play the same game as i do.
i understand that you don’t do this to spite me. or at least i hope your reasons are more noble. more worthy. but i don’t understand why after constant failure at regulating the flow of traffic, you can’t figure out that all you need to do is simply coordinate with the three other imbeciles at each entry point.
it’s called a walkie-talkie. i’ve seen you carrying the device. try turning it on and communicating with each other. perhaps instead of using game-theory to predict what the other person is going to do, you could actually use some logic?
or better yet, leave. let the roundabout serve its purpose. i’m sure we can figure out the flow for ourselves.
without you there, my road rage might never have the chance to blossom. i’d prefer it that way. this is one game i’d really rather not play.
i heard once that you are to blame for heartache. i took that with a grain of salt. after all, it’s unfair to judge without knowing the facts about you.
so to test your powers, i put myself in situations that i knew i’d find you. like a desperate prom date in a bright yellow dress, i was seeking your attention. i held off on opening non-discript boxes because until i did, the container would hold anything i could imagine. i ignored my phone when it beeped; thinking that until i checked it the message could be from anyone.
in those hours, anticipation built. i expected greatness. the box was meant to be filled with audrey hepburn movies, paint brushes, my latest craving. my phone would hold the promise of temporary elation.
and finally, i’d open them. to disappointment. every.time.
i gave you a chance, and you failed me. the ecstasy of expectations was replaced with the truth of what wasn’t there.
in short, i’d really like for us to part ways. i realize you won’t go down without a fight, but i’m ready for it. so the next time i get a gift, i’m ripping the wrapping off instantly. the next time my phone vibrates, i will read that text message. i won’t be fooled by anticipation. expectation. disappointment.
aramex, your deliveries are just as bad as jormall. boutique royal, ferragamo, bcbg: i hate your sms service.
