The thoughts get jumbled, wired and mixed up with the emotions of the moment. How could you ask me to be objective? Happiness spurred me on, bitterness deterred me while anger rushed me towards retribution.
It was the lies, the unrepentant half-truths that choked me. The lies pained and hurt, but eventually all culminated into an incomprehensible anger that burned into my soul. When it was I who would never have judged you, would have understood- that only ally who would listen like as if a part of your soul- you ripped that out, killed it with bare hands. And you broke the faith. The faith in an ideal. An ideal that wasn’t simply lost. But an ideal, you begin to wonder, if ever existed in the first place.
The anger burst forth with the recognition of my own gullibility. Of my own weakness in believing in the goodness of a heart that apparently could do no wrong. I was appalled that I could have allowed myself to be lured into the trap I’d foreseen well before. It wasn’t that I didn’t know of the quirk that I mistook for truth, but yet chose to ignore the fallacy and still place my bet, my heart, on it. Stupid, stupid me.
What made him so convincing was that, in the moment, he believed in every lie that he said, the sincerity shimmered and sparkled off it, like a looking glass under the shining summer sun. And I should have known better. I knew better. After all, I had a similar strategy in place for all back-up plans. I definitely wasn’t as good but I surely was aware.
But in keeping with my unprecedented idiosyncratic behavior, all my good senses deserted me when I let myself be lulled into believing, trusting. The words. I wanted nothing but them to be real. The words that were my treasures that would keep me company in the darkest of my nights, that I would hold on to in my direst hour, that I would cherish in my favorite dreams. It was the deep wish in my soul, that wanted, that begged them to be true. But there always would be one uttered lie slipped in the midst of all the half-truths, contradicting and diminishing all and every that came before which even my muted consciousness couldn’t ignore and my blossoming world built on his words and words alone, would crash all around me anew.
The words, the actions, the gestures, the thoughts were all but of a well-orchestrated play. An attempt of a seasoned actor for whom the world was really a stage and people, mere characters who shed their roles whenever they stepped off his stage, his radar. All feelings were temporary, put-on, the characters little better than mere marionettes to his rehearsed and expert ministrations. The joy was in how adept he was in deciding the course of the play, the destiny of the characters. And of course, like a stage act, in his mind there were no repercussions, no lasting effect but his own satisfaction and sometimes, that of his select characters if he so chose. He was playing God- a loving, merciful and an all-powerful God.
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Maverick Misfit 
Take it easy Guria. Things will become better. We are with you.
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SG: Hahaha, actually this is almost entirely fiction… I say, almost, because there's no better inspiration than reality, is there?
Also, it's good to see you here… how have you been?! 🙂
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I am doing OK. Will keep in touch.
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