Past Lives

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I wish I had met you earlier – when you were younger, more naive. It would have made more sense. This would make more sense. But then I would have been younger too, and if not more naive, more stupid. Far more foolish than you mumbling a curse in your guilt over bribing a traffic enforcer. Far more vulgar than your occasional damns and shits. But I guess if one thing is the same with you then and now, it’s your temper. Still, the person you are today seems kinder. When I first met you I thought it impossible for you to even hurt a fly. Let alone say son of a…But that is today.

And before today, you were an angsty young adult who got short-tempered too. You got disappointed, sentimental. You got excited over petty things, and singing inside the bathroom. And you… Well, you fell in love. You yearned for love. You mused about it in songs, in poetry. But you also got sad. Yes, you got sad often. In your words, depressed. You got sad after a heartbreak and now, thinking about it, a heartbreak is probably the last thing you’ll ever experience – what with your choices. Our choices.

That choice – so far from how you were but also so you. That choice is how I know you now. That choice gives me reason to believe that perhaps a heartbreak is the last thing you think you’re capable of doing to people. But it doesn’t make sense for me to try and make sense of who you were and who you are now. It shouldn’t be my business. After all, isn’t this exactly what I was and still am trying to do too – become someone else by making a choice.