It’s been a hot minute since I’ve last blogged I noticed, and this particular topic seems to be shadowing me around lately. Today, it burst my patient bubble and blew most shreds of respect I have for a few people.
Simply put, I have always been a firm believer that the past should be kept in the past.
After having a nice cookout with family and before we began to play some card games outside, an ex randomly texted me only for my phone to receive a disgusted look from me as I recognized the number on the screen; the corner of my upper lip turned up to reveal a scowl that an angry Elvis would have been proud of, and my eyes did double time in rolling to the sky, seriously? Why? Against any better judgment I read the text only to wish I never had. Why would he ever think I care that hearing a laugh that sounded like mine made him think of me? I mean, thanks for the compliment, I guess, but no thank you for returning to that chapter of my life.
I am an avid reader and I own more than enough books to put most libraries to shame, but I rarely read a book more than once. That first time of reading a book can never be beaten; the thrill and mystery cannot be rebuilt. Therefore, it sits on a bookshelf until one day, years down the road, I have forgotten most of the book’s contents.
Life is a book you can only read once.
It’s not that I still like him—I don’t, when I get these random texts I often times laugh at myself for having been such a dumbass to fool myself into liking him, because I can’t remember why I ever did—but it is that he has been seeing someone and still texts me shit at the most inconvenient and unsuspecting times that I lose more respect for him and become further annoyed. Nor is it that I don’t like him—I like him fine if I run into him at the gym and I wish him the best of luck in his life endeavors and in happiness—I would just never make plans to hang out with him. He is simply a chapter that was well written, in which I can pinpoint some major life decisions that changed the course of my future, and the prelude to a chapter where a wonderful friendship with my best friend was ruined. For both these reasons I can’t regret my time with him either—I learned many truths about myself and grew as a person—but I also can’t believe my naivety at the time.
Running into my past is different and entirely acceptable—its natural for my present and past to collide at times—when done entirely by coincidence—and maybe God’s need for a good laugh at my expense. Whatever, I can deal; these awkward moments are usually an entertaining part of my week.
Two nights ago, last summer wanted to hang again, which while I admit would be all fun in catching up was in reality of little interest to me.
A week ago, another past randomly showed up on my doorstep with only the teensiest bit of a forewarning. Yes, it was good to see him, but no, it was not necessary in the least.
A little over two weeks ago, a particular ugly past of mine showed up at my work. While it was an ego boost to know that after almost 3 years he was still into me and wanted me, I didn’t waste my time in giving him attention unless I noticed his table needed another round of drinks.
Not even a month ago, last November asked for a second chance, but with distance and my interest elsewhere, it was a chapter I did not need to rewrite.
Truth be told, maybe I’m a bitch in my attitude of not caring to revisit the past; I don’t do second chances, in any form. Truth be told, I don’t feel the need to bullshit. There are enough people acting fake in this world, putting a face and act on for others to witness. It is completely unnecessary for me to add to that drama. I’ll let them play that role themselves; I’ve never been one for the stage anyway.
It’s like I said, life is a book you can only read once.