sea salt on my face, lips

Beirut, January 25, 2016

This time last year, I was back in Glasgow, and we were dancing. It was, it is, Rabbie Burns night, the night the scots celebrate their most beloved poet, Robert Burns, eat haggis, drink whisky and go to ceilidhs. 

This time last year, I recall dancing, getting sweaty in my blue velvet dress, the one I wear to first dates. I recall giving my phone number in a motherly affectionate way to a boy who later messages me with a ‘hey, how’s it going.’ I don’t even remember his name.

This year, I am in Beirut. I am in Beirut, Beirut, Beirut. It feels like I have never even left. I spent all of last year, all three hundred and sixty five days of it, assuring and swearing and explaining to everyone around me that there was no way in all parallel universes that I would ever return. That I was done with Beirut, that I was ready to move on, to be someplace new, where no one knew my name, my face, the sound of my voice.

But I am back, and I write this with the heaviest of hearts. Not just because I’m back, but because in the short space of two weeks, I have managed to get my heart attached to someone who doesn’t want it. And now I can’t keep back the tears. They fall down, like broken soldiers, in a war they never should have fought. 

I remind myself that I must cry, that I must allow my whole being to feel this emptiness, this failure, that I must live this deception like I have lived all other deceptions that I became capable of letting go of. He was never mine, so there is absolutely no point in being jealous or possessive over his Facebook interactions. Clearly, he is avoiding me, and I must not be tempted to speak with him. I can give him what he wants, but he doesn’t want to give me what I want. And in this lack of balance lies the complex breaking of my heart, of my soul. In this lies the certainty that we will never be. No matter how much I wish us to be.

I remind myself that this one will be harder than the others. This one gave me my first kiss, without feeling any love or attraction towards me. Only lust. He will forget me, he will forget my name and the sound of my voice, and the colour of my hair. He will forget me, easily. But I can’t promise to forget him. I have, faultily, I know, created a perfect image of him. He will haunt my thoughts for a very long time. It is unfortunate for him, if that kind of confession scares him. I am not the kind of girl who meets boys often, nor the kind of girl who boys like, in general. So I will think about him for a long, long time.

I remind myself, also, that the story will end. That I will move on, as I have with all the others who never returned the feelings I gave, who stole those feelings from me and paraded with my helplessness in their idiotic smiles and new relationships. Because as time passes, I pass as well. I am moving forward and so is my unrequited love. Soon, there will be no unrequitedness left. There will be no love left. 

I went walking today. I couldn’t bear to stay inside. The temperature outside was 9 degrees, a mild winter day for Glasgow, but a really icy day for Beirut. It was crisp and beautiful, made worse by the pollution and the lack of sidewalks. But it felt like I was back. If I had closed my eyes as I walked, I could swear that I was back. That I would stop by the organic shop to get my coconut shampoo, a new tea box and some coconut water to sip as I made my way back to the flat, going through Great Western Road, through the park and by the river, and by that pub by the river, where people watched people come and go, come and go. 

Here, in Beirut, I walked to the corniche. The sea was mad with anger, cold, wind. The waves covered us and there was sea and salt flying in the air, like Tinker Bell’s magic dust. On my lips, I tasted the salt. I could feel a lassitude washing over me as I walked. It was almost always there, this lassitude. The boots I was wearing rubbed my heels, and that did not help. I stopped and watched the horizon, the waves, in their constant swelling, their constant crashing, their constant bursting. Like fireworks made from water. I think I also begged them for the release, for the freedom. But I’m not certain they listened. They were too busy with the storm. Finally, I made my way back through the university, where throngs of people were gathered to celebrate its 150th. The music was very loud, and the faces wholly unfamiliar. How the places you think you know, you know you are connected to, change over time. You lose the connection you had, if only temporarily, as others use the spaces vacated by you, years ago. In that moment, I felt like I had never been part of the university. So I made my way home, swallowing back the pain from the blisters. 

In my head, the fiddlers are playing, they are explaining the steps of the dance to us. In my head, guys are wearing kilts that fly with every twirl, and a girl’s flying ballet flat has neatly avoided my head, landing a few inches away from me. In my head, I’m dancing and smiling and sweating in my blue velvet dress. Perhaps I should not wear this dress on first dates anymore. They never end well when I do.

I write this with cold hands and lots and lots of self pity.

Which I cannot help but mock myself for. 

Sarah.