Checkmate.

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He said I wasn't in agreement with myself, and he was right.  He said I fought life...he was right.  He said I subconsciously didn't believe that I was worthy of good things happening to me and so I deliberately sabotage my own positive experiences.  And he is right.  

"Congratulations," I said over the international line.  The tears streaming down my face would not affect the cool tone of my voice: "I think you may be the first person to ever figure me out." 

"Four years," he laughed, "I've been with you longer than any other donkey in your past life."

We both laughed, and listed my failures in love, and laughed some more.  But the sadness was overwhelmingly, agonizingly still there.  No amount of clarity could restore the lost playing pieces between the two of us on this life board; no amount of accurate psychoanalysis or personal insights would change the fact that we've hit the end of our game.  Checkmate.  Game over.  Lost,  love.  Again.  

Life to him is as black and white as the checkers our pawns glide over.  And I, I am the queen that moves differently from any other player on the board.

My heart constricts.  I leave the broken pieces where they lay on the floor, for now. 

Dena AtassiComment