On cosmic saviours

My conversations with her began at a time of need. A need to externalize and actively show wounds I had been covering for way too long. We had known each other for three years, but so little. Yet, in a few weeks we had engaged in a cosmic acquaintance of souls. That warm August afternoon, by the sea, she had reached out with a single look. 

Following ten minutes of small talk, she turned to me and said “so, how are you?” It wasn’t the words, it was her eyes, they looked right into me, their gentle hands reaching into the darkest part of my crumbling fortress. A cosmic resonance was all I felt. I began talking, and crying, and talking. I didn’t care who was looking or listening, I only wished to let out some of the pain that was eating me alive. A paralytic parasite of my soul, endangering my very existence, she began to yank it out, one tear at a time, one word at a time. A five-hour long confession; eternal gratitude. A lifelong commitment to what would become one of the most honest relationships I’d ever have. 

She listened, and cried, and spoke with words that mattered, and whose weight matched my agony. Truths you only rarely overhear when you’re speaking with yourself. Sometimes, you don’t wish for things simply because you think they don’t exist, so when you find them, you realize you had, you always had. She had simply come when I was ready to see her, and she was ready to receive me, when we were both ready to accept that we needed to heal. 

It’s June now. My windows are open but the air is cold. Not even summery cold. It feels like spring. It’s felt like spring ever since. I feel that I don’t tell her enough, like it will never be enough. I feel that she doesn’t know, like she’s too humble to accept what she did for me. What everyone else failed to do. I need to remind her. 

When we hurt, truly, deeply, profusely hurt, it’s partly because we haven’t been good enough to ourselves. We have betrayed ourselves in some way, and therefore allowed the pain to seep in through the pores of our existence. I hadn’t loved myself enough to realize that I was suffocating me, silencing me, drowning me under a pile of “should haves” and “must haves”, and breaths whose oxygen I had not exhaled myself. How utterly had I had betrayed myself in letting someone else breathe for me? How cruel? How careless? 

I will always remember that day at work. It was a Friday, early September. The office was half empty, most people still prolonging the summer. Just the two of us in the room. We began talking around 9 am, after the morning caffeine shots had done what they’re supposed to do, make you civilized again. We never stopped talking until we left at 4:30 pm. We didn’t even want to leave. We had done no work, we had barely opened the door, we had barely moved. 

She didn’t know how to judge, she looked at me as if she’d never done it. She smiled at me as if I was perfect, just the way I am. She spoke as if she knew what I feared the most. She comforted me as if her wings had never left her shoulder blades.

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