The short-lived ordeal from the past

Dear Helsinki,

I got an email from him on Thursday. I had not heard from him since I sent him an email two years ago and asked him not to contact me at least until he could perhaps see my name on Facebook in blue again, which probably would take years and moreover might go unnoticed because we had never been friends on my new profile. According to my privacy settings he is still blocked so you can imagine the overpowering daze I experienced when I got a notification on my phone about an email from XXXX XXXX, a name that I have preferred not to mouth in the past years.

I feared. And as I read his words the nightmare became solid.

We no longer communicate as I do not wish to. I didn’t even take note of what you were doing until some mutual friends informed me. I did not react to your outrageous publication of your blog about us and Osijek in the Osijek media. But I will react to your alleged arrival to Bruxelles, just so that we are on the same page.

This is not the first time this has happened. Soon after he left me second time with an email, I sent him a letter telling him straightforwardly about all the shit I had to take from him after he had broken up with me the first time. We did not talk after that. I moved to Geneva, met nice people and a boy who liked me and whom I liked. While content with the life I had I wrote about my feelings about him because that is how I process life and he contacted me after us not speaking to each other for two months. He assured me that it did not mean us getting back together, but I was not sane. I was still in love. He had read the story that made him write to me. We started talking, exchanging emails every day and sharing the most irrelevant events of our lives. I became sad, withdrew from my social life, which my friends noticed. I dreamed of us getting together again, but my mind knew it was not going to happen. My heart wanted to fight, she lusted his words like nothing else in the world and the daily dose was assured as long as I continued to write back to him. I was an addict.

The notion of love

The notion of love,
it has gotten complicated and I am not too sure what to make of that. Had I been wrong the entire time?

It is hard, to write this. Somewhat confusing. I fear of going even more astray. I do know what verb tense to use, because deciding one would inevitably mean I have arrived to a conclusion while nothing could be further from the truth. So I apologise in advance if what I write does not make sense, my dear, but I just have to go from present to past and maybe even further into the past.

I was fourteen when I fell in love for the first time.
I knew it was not real love.

But something had happened when I saw him. I start to write stories, love stories. Not about him, although fan fiction was conquering the hearts of all online friends I had. Rather I wrote original fiction, about the love that all the people in the world, or so I thought, were after for because that was the sole purpose of your entire existence. To find someone who completes you, makes you what you are supposed to be because without that one person you are nothing more than a mere being stripped naked of meaning.

My love stories were sad. Star-crossed lovers acted as the protagonists in words that still are under my copyright. I do not think I wrote a single tale where the two lived happily ever after. Maybe because I knew there was not space for that in life I had.

Nevertheless I dreamed. It hurt, ached. I collected love quotes, wrote them in sticky notes and left them in different modes of public transportation in Helsinki. I watched romantic comedies, and tended to shed a tear or two in the end because the realisation of knowing it would never happen to me was too much to bear. I read,
& listened & saw & created.
And it all anguished, tormented.