Disassociation

In my entire life, there have been only been two instances in which I could proclaim myself to be in love, both men very different from one another, and yet I was not the same woman who loved each one. They were loves that belong in youth, older and more wise love holds no more room for such allegations. The allegations and proclamations that young love exclaims to be eternal and character changing. These young loves were like the quiet waters with its ember blue reflections; delicious mirrorings hiding the sinister cold which stings the skin like ice and leaves the body riddled with goosebumps and violent shivering. Unrequited loves were these; not bitter, but sweet in its opportunity for it gives the power to love without restraint and in ignorance. I loved these men for what I saw them to be, not for who they were, and so my love full of ignorance never wavered at the reality of what it means to love another imperfect being.
Like rain that ends without notice, so did these loves wither in me, it began with the slowing of the putter of my heart, which I took at first to be a sign of familiarization. The thrown glances day by day began to decrease, my words no longer sought their ears, and little by little the seeds of indifference sprouted in my heart, replacing the lush evergreen trees that had stood proudly erect for years. I understood in that moment one truth of life, that nothing is eternal, what has a beginning will very much bring an end, that strength is not reason alone to certain immortality. 

These loves came to an end, but I never buried them in my heart, they run through my veins and carry the weight of my memories, they are the past which is carried into the present; producing a lightness in my toes and a ring in my laugh, they are the essence of my ability to continue to love. Being here in Japan has made me realize that I am not truly alone for I walk with kindred spirits, which I lead myself to believe lead me to persons or places that can further expand the love I carry within myself, how much is one capable of loving until the sweet waters dry out?

He dried out the curiosity in me, this man sitting in front of me, with his black coffee and buttered croissant building a wall below our eyes. He was a graduate college student majoring in literature, he had learned English and French while in high school. He was wiry, with delicate wrists and bony fingers, he appeared to be balanced by wind like flimsy paper flying on wind currents. His beige coat and blue sweater were markers of the college fashion, and his way of speaking did not surprise me in the least, after my examination I had begun to expect it from him, I was not looking for warmth or friends, but a simple exchange of words with another person. What I needed was not conversation, but to hear the voice of a human, to bring me out from my mind, I needed that red string to lead me out of the dark labyrinth which had begun to consume me. There was no sincerity in his voice and there was no interest in mine, we wanted something from each other, that desire kept alive by the table in which we sat, and I knew that the moment we parted, the translucent connection would snap and time would continue, unchanged and unwavering.

He asked me how long I’d been here, that my Japanese was easy to follow compared to other foreigners who came. I told him his English was outstanding, he wasn’t shy, but quite bold in his questions. He laughed, and with a smile said that he knew there was no need for Japanese formalities, he understood Western culture. I only nodded back and agreed, there was no need for me to argue with this stranger and upset the sentiment I had built for myself. I realized it was a mistake to have chosen him as the one to stir up some interest, I felt bored as I sat with him and I found I couldn’t concentrate on his words, between inaudible dribbles I captured one word here, another there, but it was like static to my ears. He kept talking, taking my silence as acceptance and intrigue, I felt my hands going numb, time was slipping from my conciseness and I remember thinking that he was made of paper mache and I was just a doll playing coffee house for some little girl. As I began to slip into further nothingness, I felt a hot grip on my wrist, I was slowly coming to, but I was not aware of the man kneeling by my chair, it was not the college student, who only now began to appear worried, but the waiter. He asked me in Japanese if I was alright, that I looked pale, as if I was going to faint and that was exactly what happened as I slid down the chair.