Fireworks are the perfect metaphor for being in love with someone who may not feel the same – equal parts beautifully exciting and potentially devastating. Falling in love with him was exactly like a too-close-for-comfort firework display. He was as haughty and unruffled as he was tender and caring. His arms made her feel like she was wanted but unopened front doors in the middle of July told another tale. Being in love with him meant that life was unpredictable – some days he would bring her flowers and other days she would keep waiting for a phone call that would never come.
She was nothing extraordinary. She was skin, muscle, sinew and bone. But she was in love – all consuming, breath stealing, heartbeat skipping, and insomnia inducing love. The surreal tingle of simply being in some measure in a romantic exchange was more than enough to make her go a little crazy. Things were not so bad until she found herself at home in the suffocating agony of affection that was not equally reciprocated or at the very least, expressed. She often wondered if the fact that he was absolutely wrong for her made them connect so well.
And at times when the labored breaths escape her, she wonders if she is dehydrated enough to be dizzy. Was three hours of profuse sobbing enough to turn her body into a dry wasteland? – She wonders one evening. ‘Was it possible to feel like you will never be happy again with someone?’ – She catches herself think on her way home from work. She certainly feels barren on the outside.
Her thoughts are running amok in fields of dreams she spun way too soon. The fields tell a story of warm summer days spent sipping cold beers and cold winter nights spent smoking the best pot in the city. Her fields are glazed in the lemony scent of his aftershave and the wild lilac flowers that are reminding her too much of his pillowcases. The sun is beating down now as uncomfortable as his gaze. She can see the edge of the forest now. She is at the end of her field. This is all the running her thoughts can take for now. This is where she pulls herself away from what looms ahead in her head.
One afternoon she catches herself wondering if it is possible to miss something you have never even had. Petrified, she decides to change her life.
She keeps herself busy with tasks that demand her undivided attention and every last reserve of energy. She tries to run a mile everyday to tire enough to sleep instantly at night. She watches movies that do not have even a shred of romance in them. She has given up on music and reads the most unimaginative books. She wonders if she can ever eat a brownie again without missing him again. She does what she must to keep going.
But in the brief moments when her well organized day cracks for a moment to let in the ghosts of the past she mourns silently of what could have been. Her thoughts leap beyond the field to unexplored territory. She mourns for the days she would not wake up next to him. She misses his strong embraces and urgent kisses. She misses the way he would have taken care of the demons knocking away at her in the night. She swallows the tears he would have wiped away. She wonders if they would have ended up having blue curtains or stuck to his white ones. She believes that he would have seamlessly melted into her more intensely than she imagined possible. She muses endlessly on how he would have said her name. She wonders and ponders and stops abruptly when exhaustion or sleep takes her away.
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”
About the author:
OscarPotterhead is an Indian blogger, aspiring author, Journalism major and wishes she was a dog whisperer/food stylist/ice-cream taster instead. When she is not passive-aggressively stalking good – looking folks across the internet, you can find her obsessively planning her next dream trip. She likes her coffee like her soul – black and bitter. Her boyfriend is just like her Ipad – She doesn’t have an Ipad. Her best friend is her 5-year old Labrador and she has recently taken a liking to war documentaries.
OscarPotterhead wrote the story inspired by this prompt:
The last stanza of poetry in the story is taken from a Sylvia Plath poem called “Mad Girl’s Love Song“. You should read it, I really liked it!
If you liked the story, comment here or on OscarPotterhead’s blog telling her about it!
She’d love to know your feedback.
The list of prompts was inspired by this article I happened upon, quite a few have stories written about them so stick around for the rest.
This is the fourth story of a part of a series of stories I’m going to post, which were written by my friends, I talk about it here.
Here’s the previous story, you should check it out!
And here’s the very first one, if you’d like to read that!
I’ll post the next story on the 22nd on January, be sure to check it out!
(Can you believe it is already more than halfway through January? I can’t! I feel like I’m still in 2015, in a way!
This doesn’t happen to me usually… 2016 feels a bit weird.)