The Chasm of Disconnection

The chasm of disconnection — I never like to vent the things happening to me, or what I feel.
You know me: quite an introvert. But these things inside me — the fucking sufferings, the panic attacks, all the aftermath after which I can neither see nor think nor do anything — they cripple me from within.
The cacophony of the storm causes a stir of emotions: all the odd events — good, not so good — the lovely memories and the grand, comforting lies (the ones that masqueraded as priests of humanity when I was so into you) all stream through me, breaking me, causing sudden shifts in heartbeat and breath, wrecking my sleep.

You tend to sleep happily every night, and take up a new day. Whereas me… who cares. I have to decipher it, I have to understand — as always — because it is I who must understand. All my decisions, all my ideas, all my “I don’t fucking care” were, according to you, pointed in the wrong direction.
On the other hand, it is so facile for you to say, “Move on.”
Like yeah, sure — easy to say behind a keyboard, having a good time, as if you don’t need to see things right? You have everything you wanted, and I am genuinely happy for you. Because I wanted the same for you, only with a slight tweak: you being with me. And what did I end up with? Your glorious memories.

Memories of us. Memories of being the one good entity together. Memories of stepping out of my zone for one fucking good time, only to end with your words: “We can’t be together.”

Leher kitni bhi durr chali jaye, rehti toh samundar ki hi hai.
And why do we live with those things? Why do we fake it, telling our hearts we are together by rewinding those moments? Because the slightest chance of a perfect life with you is infinitely better than an immortal life without you.

And that’s the charm — and the chasm — of our connection.