Bright Days Left Behind
Heartbreak sometimes limits the reach of your mind, concealing from memory bright days left behind. As I turn to the past and try to recall, the moments of happiness that once sang so loud, there is an impenetrable shroud of darkness and pain, an inscrutable void that over my mind still reigns. Where does the memory of a broken heart reside, when all your tears have finally dried, but deep inside you still silently cry? Has loss simply effaced from my mind, the memories of all roses and love letters ever signed? How can I simply no longer remember, all those oneiric days and nights once so tender? What truly remains of this day, when the remembrance of love no longer lights my way? Only through words can the past come alive, rescuing memories imprisoned for life, despite having committed no crime of their own, paying for sins another never atoned.
These bright days left behind began with a meeting of minds. An exchange of diplomatic words in sincere conversations, bearing our values and laying a foundation, on which a friendship was finally built. Words were the bonds that held our souls together, meant to survive the most inclement weather. Shared values that spoke of shared dreams, of a couple that coalesced into one inseparable team. Intimate talks that denuded ourselves, revealing innermost desires by love compelled. She was a silent attentive listener, but no question was ever left a prisoner.
The silhouette of her body my mind still can envision, though enshrouded in the darkness of an unforgivable decision. So many promises made were never remembered. Before the difficulties of life, she quiescently surrendered. She reneged on the most heartfelt vows ever made, abandoning me alone to meet my fate, gelidly unconcerned about my future wellbeing, a treatment unbecoming of any decent human being. Maybe this is why I can no longer recall, bright days that once rendered a giant so small. The memories of our intimate talks are now dying embers, where once burned an incandescent fire of indescribable splendor.
Words were summoned to rescue an imprisoned bright past, but inspiration can never by longing be harassed. Inspiration is not a servant that willpower commands, but an uninvited guest that never silently stands, knocking on your door only once or twice, expecting to be entertained or never appearing thrice. When your time is spent entertaining the past, inspiration never introduces the future it crafts. Remembering yesterday should be a task undertaken, only when past and present are no longer mistaken. These bright days may never return; perhaps a price paid so new ones can be born…