Let's take the time to remember.

I've learnt through self-destructive social gatherings that all of us, childish adolescents who weren't taught to fight, have that one person in our lives, one who shattered it all and kicked us into a mortar. In it, we were all grinded into powder, all of our thoughts, hopes, personalities, strengths, weaknesses, hearts, brains broken into such tiny pieces that they didn't even feel broken anymore. Homogenous piles of dust, no man to tell what they were originally. And then, from that pile we all began to shape the new human. We did play god, didn't we. Self-creation at its best. We took the dust, watered it with blood and sweat, and shaped the first thing that popped into our dusty mix of a brain, the first human-like shape we could remember: that one breaker. We took the qualities best imprinted in us of them, took the looks and kneaded them into the ever-searching eyes of the new human, and took the pain to keep it all together. We became them.

Listening to all those sad stories these last few nights I somehow understood that one frailty I could not get - didn't want to get - before: we are the same in every possible sense. It cannot be fate, or coincidence that all these stories match with each other and mine, too. Yes, we all have the same number of limbs, we breathe and defecate the same way, we live and die just like the others - but the pride of the selfish worked so much within me before that I could not realize, even the way our mind works is the same. We're anything but unique. It's not even the details that would prove otherwise. You could calmly say that yes, your breaker was my breaker, too, and still not lie. No need for bird's eye perspective, only a good look-around. You and me and them, all of them, we are the same thing.

There are times when a good listening is needed and if there's a purpose in society I feel I can go for, that is exactly it. So I listened tonight to a friend and heard the story of my own, your story, too, and consequently, the world's story, individually of every single human being. The story of the breaker. And having listened to that it hurt so strangely - for I own no sense of decent sympathy - that I started thinking. Why does it feel like it was my story? Because it was. 

And so the pointlessness would get crowned once more: here is my tale, of my breaker, as I remember it.

Long ago, back when I was a kid, I met one of the most perfect people I could think of on this horrid place where they keep the lonely and the horny mixed together hard enough so even they couldn't tell themselves apart. So I thought to myself - if it worked once, why not again? And that's where I've first seen you, my love, my breaker, my present, my formula. There you were, pretty and deep. Of course, back then I didn't yet know that all you were was pretty, lonely, desperate, and compensating. We began talking, and I was amused that such classlessness exists even in such a desolate place as that. I thought you were far-flung, reasonlessly nice, and intelligent. You awakened a burning craving that night. Naturally, all you wanted was an escape route from a dead-end from where there's no forward anymore. You wanted a reason for saying goodbye to somebody clinging, much like myself later on. So, in a way, we satisfied each others' needs and decided to meet. That's when you first lied, and I still remember it so clearly. You've praised yourself over your sincerity and uprightness. The spine that may brake, but never bend. I was charmed out of my mind.

Then we've met. I was waiting at that station, dusty of all those farewells and hearts left there before by others, and I could have sworn I've felt something coming. Call it destiny, call it perfection, I could feel you drawing closer inch by inch within my veins. Future suddenly sped up, and was waiting for the story to unfold. There you came, so perfect in form I was convinced that the world was created for this moment to happen and that it did, existence would end right away. Your every movement was telling me stories of you, stories half-true, or otherwise. I couldn't breathe from the impulse you've caused. There you walked, with the smile on your face I know now was forgiving, resigning, and up-stage. What your whisperers told you then, was "This will do." And then we walked and talked and I got so charmed I could not see anything but you. And then we've kissed in a graveyard dusty of all the hearts and brains and memories and weaknesses and strengths- 

And then we said a lot of greetings and goodbyes, we hugged and talked, and we kept the distance. Distance, that you've explained to me so I would be willing. You've told me you don't want to get close until you fall in the great feared pit of love, where all those bodies rot. I instinctively thought of a breaker unknown, your own theoretical breaker that made you this way. The thing was, though, that by then, I've served my role as separator, as a reason, a way out. All I was kept for was to keep the crows away from the desert-like land of your heart. A scare-crow, who was paid with lies. And how happy I was! I still felt the mild confusion over the fact that somebody of your magnitude would enjoy and need the company of plain me. Yet it felt natural, for before I've embraced perfection - little did I know, it was nothing more than sheer luck. Luck that I depleted while with you. Not because the reason for my happiness was a real thing. Simply because I was happy.

And then we got used to each other. We've talked. We kissed. We laid there in the beds together. We've shared our friends with each other. We laughed and formed one another, tenderly. 

And then it was all gone.