Indifference

"Not only did you lose her love, but now you have even garnered her hate," Martiro mused.

"Hate I can endure," Pan said, "for when a woman hates you she is reminded of you. Hate and love may be at opposite ends of the emotional spectrum, but they differ no less in intensity. To hate someone means that he is never far from your mind. Don't you know Martiro, hate is not the opposite of love. Indifference is."

I wrote these words six months ago. They are taken from my debut novel Moon Rabbit and reveal the book's climatic exchange between the hero (Martiro) and the villain (Pan) as they discuss what it means to love a woman. During the writing of this particular scene, I was at a very low point in my life because the woman I am in love with had just told me that she no longer had any feelings for me. Devastated by her revelation, I poured all of my pain into my writing with the hope that someday she would read my words and her love for me would be rekindled. Such a thing seems so absurd, but if love makes fools out of even the wisest men, what hope did I have? 

As Pan and Martiro discuss the nature of unrequited love, Pan concludes that it is better for a woman to hate him than forget him, as hatred at least conjures his memory within his beloved's mind. He summarizes his position by asserting that "Hate is not the opposite of love. Indifference is." When I wrote this particular scene, I wondered if Pan's observations were really true. Is indifference truly the opposite of love? To those who are wielding such a powerful weapon it probably does not seem so, but for someone who finds that all of his words to the woman he loves fall only on deaf ears, being ignored is one of the most heartbreaking feelings in the world.

Ornela, you said something very strange to me during our time together last week. I told you how deeply it hurt me when you ignored all of my letters and you replied in frustration:

"Do you know how difficult it was not to respond to you?"

These words struck me as odd because it never occurred to me that restraining yourself from writing me was in any way a struggle. It never seemed that it should be because I thought that you no longer had any feelings for me. But as I thought more about what you said and why you would have to resist the urge to speak with me, a very disturbing suspicion began to form in my mind. I wondered if you really did love me all this time but feared that by getting closer to me you would only end up eventually hurting me. I wondered if the reason you have been withdrawing from me is not because you don't love me, but because you are trying to protect me from getting hurt. 

I do not know if my suspicions are true or merely wild speculation, but I am only trying to make sense out of a very confusing and painful chapter of my life right now. Simply writing these words is therapeutic and I almost feel as if you are sitting beside me as I write, stroking my arm and toying with my hair just as you did on our last night together. I wish that you were here right now. I wish that you were here to tell me that our story is not really over. 

I just wish that you would talk to me Ornela.