That Which Is Never Lost

My subconscious has been doing this thing of late, of transporting me back in time to a not too far gone past, presenting snippets of pure bliss; all the times we were suspended in light, engrossed in love. The seemingly small and insignificant moments that peppered our days spent together with happiness, and yet were taken for granted at the time.

A few seconds pass before the vivid imagery begins to dissipate into the ether, and I’m brought back to the present moment, feeling suddenly remorseful and helpless; I turn over on my side and a glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s midday; I’m utterly alone, far removed from friends and family, listening to a Kodaline record on repeat.

Jesus.

I start to ponder the how’s, the why’s, and the what if’s, and with her parting words still ringing in my ear, I struggle to pull myself together. I cower ever so slightly in the face of the loneliness that surrounds me, and begin to think that, well, maybe she was right.

Hindsight is a cold dagger.

With that, a wave of self-pity washes over me and the process of posing discouraging questions gets underway; why do certain things have to happen the way they do; why do I have to be the way I am. No amount of reflection can seem to bring clarity, and it seems the more I meditate on it, the more striking the images become. Which is ironic, seen as the whole reason I sat down on the floor in the first place was to empty my mind of all thought.

As the dark clouds pass, the light begins to pour through a slit in the curtain, and so I start to come at it from a different angle, one of curiosity. I begin to question the very origin of these heart-wrenching images, and to what is their purpose. Is it simply a form of self-torture, compounded by the somber choice of music? A middle-finger from a parallel universe, reminding me of the magic of the life I once had, and of what could have been?

Perhaps.

Or are they showing themselves to teach me something. Painful yet nourishing messages that I need to digest completely, and reflect upon intensively, before extracting the lesson so that I can continue forward along the rocky road of self-improvement? It depends on one’s attitude, I suppose.

So where do I go from here? Certainly, it can’t hurt to make use of this alone time. To sit down with myself once and for all, and ask some constructive questions. Like, what do you actually want for yourself? Yes, that’s a good start.

I can always take immense encouragement from the fact that my hands remain firmly on the wheel. I am in total control, and can choose what to make of these thoughts and feelings, of which if used wisely, have the innate capacity to fuel this journey towards inner growth.

More specifically, I can get off the fucking bed, rip myself from this Kodaline-infused melancholy, and instead blast some Metallica in my ears, go and lift something heavy, and stop feeling sorry for myself while I’m at it. Yes, that would work.

The past is the past, but it’s part of us nonetheless. How we choose to use it, is up to us. Allow these memories to present themselves, study them for a brief moment, extract the lesson, and use it as fuel to aid progression. Recognise the feelings, good, bad and indifferent, and feel them completely; joy, sadness, anger, jealously, resentment, each one is as important as the other. (If you’ve seen the movie Inside Out, you’ll know this to be true.)

Love, indeed, is never lost. I’m grateful for the memories, for the experiences good and bad, and for the mistakes- as much if not more- than the victories. I’m thankful for the awareness of the perfection of this moment; for the encounters and experiences that have brought me to where I am now, healthy and happy, with air in my lungs, and a pen in my hand.