|Dear John VIII: Fire Pages
Author: Guede Mazaka
ďI will tell how fire comes
* * *
Itís been a hell of a year.
Pardon my language, but I just have to say it like that and not in some politer way, because that would strip all the expression from it. Let me explain.
I broke up with him. Yes, I know I said I loved him. I think it was true whenóno, I know it was true when I said that. I did love him. And he loved me. ButÖI donít know. It didnít last. We changed, and what we had went soft and rotten long before either of us wanted to say anything. I guess we didnít because it had been so good, and we kept hoping it was just going to be a rough patch. In the beginning that was what it was, but then it just kept going and getting worse and finally I just couldnít take it anymore. You see, I loved him. So now I didnít want to hate him.
We fought so much near the end, and sometimes we would get so angry and then Iíd be terrified of him, and he could see that. It made him mad because once he said heíd never hurt me and I said Iíd never be frightened of him, and we both broke our promises.
Iím writing this while the clock blinks how late it is at me. Tomorrow I have to get up earlier than usual to finish off a paper, and then Iím pulling the late shift as usual at work. Thereís also the groceries and studying and cooking, and digging out the things he accidentally left behind so I canÖsend them back to him, I guess. Itís funny how calm I am now. I was crying earlier, so hard that I thought Iíd never stop, that I finally understood why people say drown in your own tears, but now my eyes are dry. It hurts, but I can still brush my teeth and get my bag ready for tomorrow. Itís funny. Life justÖgoes on. Your heart breaks into pieces, but you donít drop dead where you are.
It helps that I can write this out and tell someone. I donít want to talk about this to any of my friends yet, because I know that all Iíll get is a lot of sympathy and you-deserved-better-anyway. They mean well, but I just canít take that right now. I just want to talk about it, and explain things, and then go to sleep. Iím so worn out from the last fight that I can barely lift my pen.
But before I put it down, let me say thank you for letting me go on about this. Or at least letting me pretend that you are. Youíre the best thing in my life, and that will never change, I know.