Unsubscribe from the Memories

A song while reading

Often, it helps to write a letter as closure when things settle. Often, it’s easier to talk about what happened six years ago, so we can avoid talking about what’s now.

But here it is.

This goodbye is fresh.
This, I hoped, would never come.

We were blessed by the universe, searching for each other across lifetimes. I held on more than I ever had, because I thought that was love. Holding on with strength and mistakes.

We had to stay together for this time, we had a mission together and individually. I learned so much, but I also learned about self-love. Maybe you’ve learned it too, the moment when you realize love isn’t just about holding on, it’s about choosing. When that crunch time comes, when you both have to choose each other, or time will slip. And suddenly, you find yourself 10, 20, 30 years from now, living a different reality than the one you imagined.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

But you also sign a contract, one that says you must carry all the memories.

You look at the contract.
Then at the person fading from your life.

Which one?

But their name is already there, stored in your Memory Dropbox, one you don’t even remember subscribing to.

And no, amnesia isn’t a feature they offer.
A delete button? It’s fake. It deletes nothing.

You either sign it yourself, acknowledging that you choose this fate.
Or, it signs itself for you, 60 days after the cancellation of the plan… or, in this case, the breakup.

So it's sealed, Munks.

I think with you, you were the first being with whom I had this feeling of we are one, not in an unhealthy way, just in the way of understanding.

Understanding the hurt.
Understanding the humour.
Understanding the joy.

Just like little kids: one starts crying, and the other follows.
Same with laughter.

One cry. One laughter.

Have you ever felt this way?
Like you feel the other person, but really… they are you?

When, after an argument, you just can’t sleep because you feel how upset your partner is.
Or when you talk in the silliest, funniest ways, completely in sync, inside your little bubble while hunting for snacks in the kitchen…

And the only time is now.

Maybe you’ve been there too, lying in bed next to this person (at this point, your person), holding hands, looking outside the window, at the black night sky… knowing deep down that something is slipping through your fingers.

The stars protecting you.
The trees rooting for you.
The universe watching.

And time stops.

No responsibilities.
No chores.
No bosses.
No colleagues.

Nothing constructed.

Just two sentient beings.

Or one?

Maybe that’s what love is: two, one, infinite, never really gone.
Maybe we don’t need to unsubscribe from the memories.

Maybe they stay, simply to remind us how capable we are of love,
a reminder that we are truly infinite when it comes to love.

Thank you for that, Munks.

I will remember.