Thursday, November 27, 2008

We make our own history. We record it so we can remember it all, from first sight to first kiss, from first date to first romance.

History, in its broadest sense, is the totality of all known past. And history is made by those who are in power, by those who can chart their own future, by those who can take their fate by the neck and steer it to wherever they roam. And history is written by those who know how to look back, by those who have deeper understanding and appreciation of the past.

You made our love story a history of some sort, and you made me our history's historian. You made history everyday and I diligently wrote it, recording it with sweat and blood. In your eyes, I am only a scribe recording the ways of a goddess and her slave. I admit, I am nothing to your powers, because I am beholden to your beauty and to your "goddessliness". As I see you defile me, mock me, love me, hate me, love me everyday, I am but reduced to a living specter, a mute spectator of our own journey, of our own quest called love.

I love you, I love our history, I love the story that we made, I love the story that I wrote. But what is the use of those thick annals, those numerous volumes gathering dust when the love is gone? When the one who is making history is no longer in the limelight? When the one writing the history is disillusioned, blinded and biased?

Now, I am alone with the history we created, because you left me in the middle of nowhere. Alone with the memories of our past.

Yes, I could rewrite history and tell our story in a different light with a different twist. I could reduce you, just as you reduced me before, into a cockroach loving a proud lion. I could even mock your name, taint your legacy, I could do those and much more. Because I know the history of our love like I know the back of my hand. Because I can still remember and feel the sting of your every word, hurting me even if you are gone, even if you are miles away from me. Because you never bothered to stop and read the history that we both created.

But I can not do that, simply because I respect our history; the past is only good for remembering, nothing more. It is not a dwelling place where we live for the rest of our lives neither it is a terminal where we can go back when we feel we want to. No, our history is just a picture of our past, a snapshot caught in film, framed and hanged in a place where everyone can see. Easy to remember, easier to forget.

I can not defile your memory because somewhere within my decrepit heart, in some place within my beating heart you exist. To deny your existence would be an insult and a mockery to our past. I can not deny that you were once the center of my universe. I love you, God knows how much I love you even if you are gone forever. I love you, but all I can remember now were the feeling and the journey we took. I can't remember your countenance anymore. Your face is now blurred by the words I diligently wrote for the past few years, your body erased hastily by my eraser as I try to catch-write-erase-write every word you speak, every action you make. To me, you are now words that fills my memories, printed on papers, bounded and stored in some unknown library gathering dust.

Now, you are the history that I chose to forget, because forgetting is easier than remembering.

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