Strangers Again
And We Are Strangers Again


How The People We Once Loved Become Strangers Again

Itís interesting to think about how we make people who used to be everything into nothing again. How we learn to forget. How we force forgetting. What we put in place of them in the interim. The dynamics afterward always tell you more than what the relationship did Ė grief is a faster teacher than joy Ė but what does it mean when you cycle out to being strangers again? You never really stop knowing each other in that way. Maybe thereís no choice but to make them someone different in your mind, not the person who knew your daily anxieties and what you looked like naked and what made you cry and how much you loved them.
When our lives revolve around someone, they donít just stop doing so even if all thatís left is some semblance of their memory. There are always those bits that linger. The memories that are impressed on the places you went and the things you said and the songs you listened to remain.
We all eventually find ourselves standing in the checkout line, hearing one of those songs come on and realizing that weíre revolving around them again. And maybe we never stopped.
Do you ever really forget your loversí birthdays, or all your first times, intimate and not? Do your anniversaries ever become normal days of the year again? Are the things you did and promises you made ever really neutralized? Do they become void now that youíre broken up or do you decidedly ignore them because thereís simply no other choice? The mind tells you to go on, and forces your heart to follow suit I guess.
I want to believe that you either love someone, in some way, forever, or you never really loved them at all. That once two reactive chemicals cross both are changed. That the wounds we leave in people are sometimes too raw to risk falling back into them. I donít want to believe that we write each other off because we simply donít matter anymore. I know love isnít expendable. I wonder, and maybe hope, if we ever just force it to be out of necessity.
Maybe itís just that weíre all at the centers of our own little universes, and sometimes they overlap with other peopleís, and that small bit of intersection leaves some part of it changed. The collision can wreck us, change us, shift us. Sometimes we merge into one, and other times we rescind because the comfort of losing what we thought we knew wins out.
Either way, itís inevitable that you expand. That youíre left knowing that much more about love and what it can do, and the pain that only a hole in your heart and space in your bed and emptiness in the next chair over can bring. Whether or not that hole will ever again include the person who made it that wayÖ I donít know. Whether or not anybody else can match the outline of someone who was so deeply impressed in youÖ I donít know that either.
We all start as strangers. The choices we make in terms of love are usually ones that seem inevitable anyway. We find people irrationally compelling. We find souls made of the same stuff ours are. We find classmates and partners and neighbors and family friends and cousins and sisters and our lives intersect in a way that makes them feel like they couldnít have ever been separate. And this is lovely. But the ease and access isnít what we crave. It isnít what Iím writing about right now. It isnít what we revolve around after itís gone. We are all just waiting for another universe to collide with ours, to change what we canít ourselves. Itís interesting how we realize the storm returns to calm, but we see the stars differently now, and we donít know, and we canít choose, whose wreckage can do that for us.
We all start as strangers, but we forget that we rarely choose who ends up a stranger too...

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