She’s saying she became a bit crazy after they broke up. Now, she’s doing better. She continues telling the breakup story that she shares repeatedly because deep inside she knows she’s still heartbroken. She wants to prove them she’s over him and she’s stronger.
He was no more than a learning experience. The love they professed, the nights they shared, the stories they weaved are long gone. Two strangers whose love for each other sent them into the realm of isolation.
Have you ever been in a coffee shop that you don’t belong to? You sip the caramel macchiato slowly, while writing notes on your little notepad. You are trying to capture the scene with the fixed foreign syntax. It’s futile. So many minds clashing in a petite space where the sound of the coffee maker and the circular slam of the spoon with the cup leave you numb. Ideas dissolve into a downward spiral which end is mere vacuity.
Everybody’s chatting, reading books with yellow pages and laughing at the mundanity of life while they sip liquid coffee beans that were shaped by brown hands. I’m learning to like coffee. I’m learning to unfold in this prosaic world they like to see as bizarre and surreal.
My black ink is getting nasty and the blank page is getting dirty, full of scribbles and screams for connection. This banality strips my chest slowly and makes me wonder if it would be too pretentious to ask, why don’t we all love today?
We will be heartbroken, just like her, telling breakup stories repeatedly.