Like a Moth to a Flame

Note: Something I wrote a while back...

They say looking back always yields 20/20 vision.

I read some old emails today and came across a post-break-up correspondence with an ex. You would think that after such a long time of having broken up (count the years, baby), the letter would come across as cheesy or pathetic, but it didn’t turn out that way.

It was an intense letter, touching the core, naked to the bone.

It brought back memories of how that relationship began, how it progressed, how it roller-coastered into a train wreck you couldn’t take your eyes off of, and how I eventually got up and, miracle of miracles, walked away.

I wasn’t unscathed. I had bruises internally and externally. My bravado, for the first time in my life, faltered. I had a meltdown of sorts, and neither Discovery Channel, Cartoon Network, nor ABC Dramas could give light to my days. I was hopeless. I wished I was dead. I was drowning, arms were reaching for me, but I didn’t want to be saved. If this was how intense love ended, I wished I never experienced it ever again.

I cursed the man, I cursed the day we ever met, I cursed my heart. I should have known better, but I didn’t. I lost hope in life and love for a time, although my capacity to fake smiles and laughs fooled a lot of folks.

It wasn’t until a full two years later that the intensity subsided. We met up, and suddenly, there were no bells ringing, no tingling in my joints, no unexplainable awkwardness. There were just two people chatting, talking about their lives and loves.

I still loved this man, this man who showed me how intense a love could be. But now, that man was a memory, and this new guy was just a fragment of that person. Time had changed us and we had changed time.

In those two years, I had another, but my heart, all taped up, could not stand another possible beating, so I didn’t give it my all. I said I did, but deep down, I knew I still wasn’t completely healed from the thrashing my heart previously took. And so we faltered, me and this new guy, and it eventually ended. And I had a tear or two to cry, but it was more out of guilt and frustration than sadness and anger. It wasn’t an intense relationship, and this made it easier for me to let go, to move on.

My diatribe with intensity now over, I’m not quite sure if I want to have another brush with it again. I’ve learned a thing or two about loving and being myself, but it certainly seems a daunting task to face intensity a second time.

I told a friend I wasn’t sure I would survive another one, and that is true. So, if one walked through the door today, would I move toward it?

Most probably, yes.

Like a moth to a flame.