La Douleur Exquise

I got to thinking about memories the other day. I noticed that the memories I recollected with most ease were the ones that hurt me the most. I started thinking consciously, recalling consciously, the happy memories, and found that this was a lot harder than I had anticipated it would be. Why, I asked myself, was it easier to remember the things that caused pain and, conveniently, forget the things that brought pleasure?

It took a lot of Asian soul-searching to figure this one out. And of course, walking alone in the city one night, just as all good thoughts eventually do here in Korea, this answer came to me. Painful memories hurt then; pleasurable memories hurt now.

Where did the love go? Where did our life go? At one point, I felt something so real, so tangible, so palpable, that I could actually FEEL it in my heart. And now? Now that feeling is (for the most part at least) gone. The love is gone. That most rich of emotions, that most heartfelt, most real, most real part of me is gone. And so it hurts today, right now; not later, not spitefully; it just pains me now.

Possibly worst of all, there is nothing I can do to make the love of yesterday burn less bright so the pain of today can sting any less. The love hurts today, because today, it is no longer there. So it is much harder to recall.

I'm not suggesting that we should all abandon all our hurt feelings and go rushing back to the happiest memories. There definately were some terrible times. And we definately learned from those times. Perhaps, though, we run so fast from the good stuff because it reminds us that we were happy then, and we are no longer living that life, no longer in that relationship. Maybe we aren't even happy anymore.

We remember the fights in vivid detail: the resentment, the anger, the tears, and worst of all, the regret. But I can also recall hearing baseball games from the apartment, nights out in Toronto in those early days, self-portraits on the beach in Cuba, eating mortadella sandwiches from a cooler at Port Franks, picking apples, and the real Christmas tree in a very real house. If I let myself, I even remember fondly. And though it is hard most of the time to recollect these images, it feels good sometimes to remember that they brought me joy. You were good, he was good, you were good to each other, for each other. The pain is always exquisite: it shocks, it hurts, it scars.

But sometimes the pleasure is exquisite too.