[originally published July 13, 2018]
Today is the birthday of a man I used to call my friend. It didn't hit me until now that today was his birthday. We had known each other for a decade, friendship forged through those awkward high school days when he unwillingly starved and I willingly starved. The days when I would bring him food and he would reject it, when he would make jokes and keep me entranced. I first noticed him in history class with Mr Van Os. Sitting in the middle of the room, head down, who was he? We might have spoke a few times that class, but I don't remember.
I remember that when we finally got into Ms Binning's Humanities class, we were in a group together for the majority of the semester. It was there that we began to know one another. We bonded over culture, life, the normal things teenagers do. On the last day of high school (ten years ago, ten years ago), we sat on the ground outside the cafeteria, smelling the year-end barbecue, listening to the bittersweet sounds of the end of an era, watching kids frolicking and yelling across the lot. I remember the sun shining down through misplaced clouds and a blue sky, illuminating our faces. We were far from one another. But still, I handed him my yearbook to sign and he did. I can't remember if I told him how I felt. It was too long ago.
Over the years, of course we stayed in touch. I counted him as one of my closest friends. I talked to him about everything and anything. If we stopped talking for a long time, the conversation would inevitably be picked up again at some point by one of us and it would be like no time had passed at all. The best kind of friendship. He was witty and sharp and could match my wit equally. I would randomly call him throughout the years and leave strange voice mails, full of bad singing and random thoughts. He listened to all of them.
He was someone who could be wise and sage, comforting and warm. He would give me life advice, even though we're the same age. But he knew ruination. Everyone in this city knows ruination to some degree. He saw other people, I saw other people. But we remained good friends, despite it all. My love for him transformed into friendship over the years. His friendship morphed into love.
He began to isolate. He began to make close friends with Death, even though Death is yet to make His presence known, even though Death is not yet interested in him. We kept in contact over the years through the internet and through our phone. We only saw each other twice (that I can recall) in the past ten years.
I came into ruin on my own. Through the work of slave masters and bad men, demons and sorcerers. He watched me through it all. He wouldn't open up as much as I did. He told me some things, but refused to delve deeper. He cut off my access to his soul, even though I always opened mine up to him. He could match my wit, he could make jokes, he could soothe me. But he couldn't share his heart.
He told me he loved me. He said he wanted to go out. He said that we should give it a try. "What are we waiting for? It's been ten years". But then he refused to show up.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
He would say yes, then no. He would cancel before anything began. He would say it's not a good idea. He would shut down. He would ignore. He began to paint me with colours that never existed, vulnerability was too much for him.
He prefers to stay alone. He prefers to stay closed. He prefers to isolate. He prefers the pain of loneliness and calls it solitude.
I became impatient and confused. I still don't understand mixed messages. I reacted to his lukewarm response because like any other woman, I was getting fed up and I've gone through too many broken hearts to let myself be broken again.
And yet, it has still been years since I saw him. Even in his desire to want me, he never showed up.
It was all a dream, all a memory. He disappeared. He went away. He floats in a far-away nebula, With nothing but loneliness And calls it solitude.
And yet, And yet,
I remember his birthday And his parting cut me deeply But I've already been bleeding for a year So it was a small sting amongst a thousand other stings But today I feel it all I feel that sting And it hurts the most.
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"The Hanged Man is one of the most mysterious cards in the tarot deck. It is simple, but complex. It attracts, but also disturbs. It contradicts itself in countless ways. The Hanged Man is unsettling because it symbolizes the action of paradox in our lives. A paradox is something that appears contradictory, and yet is true. The Hanged Man presents to us certain truths, but they are hidden in their opposites.
The main lesson of the Hanged Man is that we "control" by letting go - we "win" by surrendering. The figure on Card 12 has made the ultimate surrender - to die on the cross of his own travails - yet he shines with the glory of divine understanding. He has sacrificed himself, but he emerges the victor. The Hanged Man also tells us that we can "move forward" by standing still. By suspending time, we can have all the time in the world.
In readings, the Hanged Man reminds us that the best approach to a problem is not always the most obvious. When we most want to force our will on someone, that is when we should release. When we most want to have our own way, that is when we should sacrifice. When we most want to act, that is when we should wait. The irony is that by making these contradictory moves, we find what we are looking for."
