Time

As I sit here and type, I bleed. Just as Mr. Hemingway in his infinite wisdom expected of someone who has ever decided to write something.  For one, this feels much better than bleeding on the inside while I lie on my bed tucked away in a blanket. I tried to sleep, for hours on end. But I just couldn’t seem to get any. So I rolled from one side of the bed to the other, several times, pretending that it was in the posture that the uneasiness lay. Nothing in the vicinity could comfort my thumping heart. So I decided to get up, wash my face and type away.

Any relationship that has stood the test of time has the knack for travelling a circular trajectory as opposed to a straight one. Seldom is there a clear end. Most of us go back and forth not just for the comfort of the familiar or fear of starting anew but also because it becomes special with time and even too precious to part with. One tries of course, if the situation demands.

Passion rekindles when you least expect it to. It was almost impossible in these ‘rekindled moments’ to remember how nauseating our very presence had become for each other when we had fallen out of love. There were times we took each other for granted, not treated each other as well, even showing the door to one another without a valid reason. But as nature would have it, it wasn’t before long that we gravitated back towards each other. And there were no explanations put forth and no questions asked. That’s the effect of ‘time’, which would much rather prefer a silent assessment that a dust-up. One can’t help but hark back to Tom and Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby for reference, a relationship rife with Tom’s unabashed misdemeanors and extramarital affairs. But the surge in Tom’s emotions when he feels Daisy slipping away from his hands into Jay Gatsby’s, is more than palpable. This is clearly more than misplaced ego on part of Tom. This is platonic love, imperfect though it may seem. He tries to come back stronger and reminds her of the times he did truly ‘love’ her. Reminds her of those little moments, those that were all but lost in the pages of time. That, coupled with Jay Gatsby’s irrational demand that she should tell Tom that she NEVER loved him and that her marriage to him was just a ‘filler’ before she could finally be with Jay made the situation all the more difficult for her. Daisy drifted away further into Tom’s arms, never to return.

Condescending and unapologetic, Tom Buchanan was the husband few women aspire to spend a life with, but one that most of us turn out to be with regardless. Jay Gatsby on the other hand seemed like the ideal man, waiting several years to find his feet and ask for Daisy’s hand in marriage only to blow it in a matter of seconds.

Life doesn’t always tip the scales in favor of the good, probably because ‘good’ is nothing if not a matter of perception. What is good according to one person might not be quite so according to another. It just seems like ‘time’ almost always has a pivotal role to play here. A relatively average proposition that turns up at an opportune moment looks so much better than the best proposition which raises its head when the time is not quite right.  Or maybe we haven’t been able to tell the good and the bad apart. In that case we will just have to see a lot of either until we can tell the difference.