Your fault?

They were right. It is your fault.

It is your fault that your grace reaches the sun. It’s your fault that the sparkle in your eyes blind those who look towards you. It’s your fault that your selfless soul believes those who say they care for you. It’s your fault that you believe that they have a heart as pure as yours.

It’s your fault that you allowed yourself to trust and bring your walls down. It’s your fault that your smile reaches to the seventh heaven. Your beauty is your fault. Your empathy is your fault. Your amazing laughter is your fault. Your intelligence is your fault. Your smile, your warmth, your style, your ability to bring life to withering roses – all your fault.

It’s his fault that jealousy ran through his veins. It’s his fault that he sought to break you from the first glance. It’s his fault your heart had the power to melt his, so he forced his blood to run cold.

It’s his fault that he sought to view you as a lifeless doll to numb your perfection. It’s his fault that he closed his eyes to listen to the beat of your heart and sought to make it skip. It’s his fault that compensated for his misery by forming a dark shadow over you.

It’s her fault that she was willing to form a friendship that never existed. It’s her fault that she faked it. It’s her fault that she hated the very thought of your success. It’s her fault that she belittled you.

It’s her fault that she lied. It’s his fault that he lied. It’s her fault that she hates. It’s his fault that he hates.

It’s their fault for making you think it’s your fault.

They taught you. They force you to extend past our limits only to abandon us and make you realise that we go beyond the limits you’ve set for yourself.

Your broken heart will heal.

His evil heart won’t.

“A year after the war ends” – Darwish.

تقول: متى نلتقي
She said: when will we meet?
أقول: بعد عام و حرب
I said: A year after the war ends
تقول: متى تنتهي الحرب
She said: When will the war end?
أقول: حين نلتقي
I said: When we meet
— Mahmoud Darwish (Palestinian poet)

Static is what comes to mind. He wants the war to wait for a year after the war to end for them to meet, but the war officially ends when he meets her. Is the war internal? Is the war a matter of unfortunate circumstances that becomes a hurricane because she’s not by his side?

In some ways, the character has accepted the futility of his fate. You can imagine him writing to his love at 1am with a cigarette in one hand and the other resting on his head with the pen in between his fingers. A paper in front of him and Turkish coffee to the right. You can imagine his eyes fixated with numbness and his heart letting out an occasional sigh.

You imagine his lover seeking his comfort and finding strength in his words. It’s clear there’s history. There’s passion. History and passion that’s locked beneath this “war.” They thought they’d make it by now. They thought the wait would be over. Her palms have been sweating in anticipation, whereas his have dried up with his hope.

The older we get, the less purpose we seek. We seek to float. To merely exist and to enjoy each moment as it comes. The bigger picture matters less as it becomes an abstract fog into the distance that distracts us from now.

When we come to this realisation, we resist. We summon the energy that life has sucked out of us and we do it with such drive that we fail to foresee the logic that we will need to fall back on and forget to pick our battles.

We recognise futility and become numb again.