When the fury dies, all’s left is ice.
Had I ever stopped believing true love existed somewhere I might not have spent my entire life single. But deep down inside every cast iron cynic is a jasmine-sniffing, daffodil-admiring romantic trying to break lose from her straightjacket and punch the cynic on the nose. Mercifully, I’m smart enough to keep my romantic on drugs. It’s those few moments when the opium starts wearing off that I actually wish that I could enjoy reading Jude Deverouxs’ and Judith McNoughts’ like other girls and not snort at the back covers before returning them to the shelf (Haw! Same story- just different people and settings!). It’s a silly thing to wish for, but most of the time the stuff you regret not doing is silly and insipid. And had you actually attempted them, they might have made your life worse rather than better.
There’s so much one should be thankful for that it’s almost scary. At the moment I’m grateful to God for foiling something I had wanted very very badly, wanted so much in fact that just surviving day by day was painful. However, now all I can think of is “Good Lord, what the hell would we have talked about?” which, being who I am, actually made me imagine our conversations and they consisted of clichés and taunts and utter misery on both sides. Also, to be honest, if I didn’t like him so much I’d have taken a knife to him anyway. My belief in Allah has strengthened, He truly does love me.
And now when I see others around me going through the same shit that I went through, these kameeni little disco lights in my heart start blinking like mad and it’s all I can do to keep from pointing and laughing and saying “In your face people!!” I’m really not the sort who enjoys the rest of humanity’s wretchedness (I only watch with indifference) but in the case of love’s labor lost it becomes my favorite show.
So here I am, with popcorn in one hand, chocolate the other, watching people break up and make up, throw tantrums and cry in the bathroom, inject themselves with the heroin of hope and spiritually OD on it. And I can’t help wondering how much fun my friends must have had watching me make an utter mess of myself. Which, by the way, adds another item in my list of things-to-thank-God-for; this intoxicating rush of superiority one gets when one’s soul mocks another’s with a silent gloat of “Been there, done that, way before you did.”