#HUGOT: The Scientist

#HUGOT: The Scientist

On failed relationships, broken hearts, living in denial, moving on (but then again, not really) - as inspired by Coldplay's The Scientist. Photo by Ceejay Sagarino

- in Feature, Life
Photo by Ceejay Sagarino

I said,
I have everything under control.
I said,
I have absolutely comprehended that
you and I, regardless
of what we had shared –
how many promises we made, kept, broke, amended, surrendered – we will never be again.

I get everything, I said.
I acknowledged our breakdown,
took note of its cause,
charged our separation as a
valuable investment on personal growth, and voila!
I can finally be happy without you.
Problem solved, I said,
and guess what? We both win.

We can be friends, and at long last
be comfortable in being intertwined without having
to worry about overstepping boundaries or getting sucked into the world
we created with “once upon a time”,
the one that didn’t end
with “happily ever after”.

I’ll draw a line, I said.
I’ll cross the space between here and there,
so I can perhaps see another point
of existence.
There’s no use
in lingering; I must soldier on.

It was the most efficient solution to purge my system of a person who was every imaginable cliché of what “normal” should be.
Always conforming,
never confronting,
always reacting accordingly,
never exceptionally.
That was who you are.

But I have recently discovered a glitch in the standard
formula of moving on to Point B
when Point A had conclusively decided
to annihilate itself, along with every and all
chance of recovery.
It had just occurred to me that
submissive, agreeable, predictable you
unexpectedly swerved off
the path that would have ultimately removed you
from the equation of my life.
When? How?
More importantly, why did I let you?

Here’s my theory:
You still hold my heart in your hands.
I know this, because

I have stopped trying to diagnose my constant longing for you, as a character flaw which can be cured by a healthy diet and regular exercise.

I have stopped denying the existence of the hole you had burned in my chest when you left, and I no longer write it off as negligible just because there is no scientific explanation for how it continuously drains the life out of me.

I have stopped trying to apply psychological frameworks to rationalize our incompatibility, and I now rely on astrology because it affirms my inexplicable belief that the world has destined you and me to be together forever.

I have stopped outlining Oregon-Oxford type arguments to justify how my pride was a necessary evil to our growth as a couple, and I instead beg for a compromise every time I hear your indignant voice in my head.

I get everything now,
so I have abandoned
the war that I was apparently waging against myself. I rejected all theories which reinforced a life without you,
until I shattered every notion I had about who I was,
what I was capable of and
what I was actually willing to give.

I am allowing myself to just wallow in my regrets, away from my comfort zone and bereft of any of my strong suits.
I am comfortable at this impasse, because at least I get to see you in your magnificence, that which I had tried to belittle with my miscalculations. So, with all walls and defenses down, without even giving the slightest regard to any form of self-preservation or logic, I concede to you and

who you have always been,

who you still are,

who you will unconditionally be

to me: my exception.

Don’t get me wrong. I still want all of this to work out for us. This friendship thing, this peaceful co-existence we’re trying so hard to maintain.
But sometimes,

I wonder…

(I mean, what are the odds?

Is there even the slightest chance?)

If you’re my exception –

the unsuspecting deviation

from an otherwise fool-proof route

to a completely different

universe – is there any probability

that I’m yours?

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