I am sensitive to rejection. It baffles me, the notion that I wound in temperament by activities, words, gestures, a little staleness in tone, an undeclared sentence in love. But, downright, even on days when I am unaffected by the demands of my temperament, I am aware of the difficulty that rests inside my heart. Rejection opens many portals and not all times are best to handle them.
Some events around me have triggered me to sit down and compile this piece. First, a story from the collected stories of Lydia Davis, a story of a woman in love with a man, and how lies have been taken for the truth and truths have been questioned as lies. Then, a couple of texts from guys that have crossed my paths – some insignificant moments and some momentary glimpses of joy. They have been utterly the non-romantic kind, just a hint of flirts, raising copious questions of their natures, and eventually settling down as the dust does after a mild shower.
Predominantly, I choose a group of close friends that I can be with, the kind that demands few meetings, almost no necessary social protocols, and the kind where the depth of the relationship is measured only by the heaviness of the topics discussed. Of being that nature, I argue in my mind, where does the current flow of events direct themselves to. It is a casual remark, I tell myself but the kind that is against the nature that I speak of. And, coming back to the forefront are the memories of abandoned texts and questions and it is there where I steel my malleable heart that no one deserves to be left abandoned in a world where there are people everywhere.
So, would I answer in return? No. I tell myself. I don’t need to. Rejection from outside of ourselves is a lot to take, it requires multiple interventions to smoothen one’s scars. Rejection from the inside, the rejection of the self, is dangerous, even fatal.