Something Like Love

THERE is a lot to be said about how writing love stories can trigger forgotten memories. I hear myself retort, “But of course.” And I do wonder how this could’ve snuck up on me then. After all, haven’t I been retelling my life story in the faith context with a church ministry for some 10 years?

And yet, completing “Something Like Love” resurfaced hopes I once had – hopes that have long since been buried, exorcised, rejected, reconstructed and wrecked by my own two hands.

I had forgotten what that hope feels like. And writing Ash into being, and having him remain present for Rach certainly did awaken those dormant and passive regrets.

A long, long time ago, a man 20-years my senior told me, “When you’ve lived long enough, you begin to have regrets.” I had so proudly determined then that I didn’t want to end up like him. Not because I felt sorry for him, no, he was a gentle and kind friend, but because I heard his pain. I felt his regret. 

Perhaps he was the one after all, who inspired me to live the way I once did – by throwing caution to the wind, wearing my heart on my sleeve… throwing myself into love. Perhaps he – a friend I had for the briefest of moments – was the one who showed me the way to live – courageously, unabashedly, daringly.

There was no reason to shy away from love. One does not regret daring to love; one only regrets turning our backs on it.

And so, I loved.

Many years later, a friend reminded me of Lord Alfred Tennyson’s “It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved again.” Oh how I hated those words. It wasn’t true. It isn’t better to have loved and lost. For once you’ve tasted real heartbreak, you never truly recover. How can one, when the fragments no longer fitted to form a whole?

What made Tennyson lie like this? What stupor must he have been in?

And now, many decades after those incidents, I find myself right where my old, old friend had been – having lived long enough to actually know regret.

I had regretted loving wholly, for it broke me.
I remedied that situation by escaping the first chance I got, the next time.
I fixed myself.

And still I find myself now, knee deep, heart-sunk in bitter remorse over my choice of remedy.

It is indeed, better to have loved and lost oneself, one’s mind, one’s very heart and soul, than never to have loved by protecting oneself in safety and shelter.

Was that what Lord Tennyson was referring to? 

What a fool I had been to think he was championing youthful ideologies of love. He was writing the rulebook for how to live and laugh in the face of heartbreak and to curse at it with ferocity, saying, “And yet, I choose you.”

I had not chosen well.

Today, I remain intact, perfect even to those who do not seek beyond the mask I wear – including myself who do not always glimpse the person I still am inside.

But alas, writing “Something Like Love’ unravelled it all for me. After all, my characters got the second chance I gave up on, they found confidence in each other and faith in love where once upon a time, I had decided to step away from. 

What remedy do I have now for my affliction?

Time can’t be wound backwards.

The only recourse then, is to rewrite my story. Quite literally. And perhaps this time, I might just stay lost. Go astray. Turn my world askew. Anything, just for a peek at what could have been.