I am not Frida

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He had tried to warn her, because he loved her more than he loved his brothers, his sisters, his mother, himself even. He had tried to warn her—not so much because he had wanted her as his (which he did), but because he yearned to protect her from the pain that was so inevitable, the pain he had already realized a long time ago that she was destined to bring down upon herself. She was the living breathing epitome of a Greek tragedy, and suitably she had absolutely no idea of her ill-omened role.

Whoever climbed the high steps, he’d told her, found great glory, great wealth, and greatness. He was quoting an old folksong, the type that said it best, and one that they’d grown up singing together as neighboring children and friends. But she never found heart.

She did not listen and she left him for another man, a wealthy extravagant man who loved her and didn’t know how to show it—not that it mattered, because she had no love to show him in return, and gradually began wondering why she was gradually becoming unhappy.

The man who was left behind despaired. He had built a home for them on the other side of the village, a home he’d sweated blood and tears to make. Before he could surprise her with it as a proposal gift, she’d wiped her shoes clean of the village to follow the clink of the coins in the other fellow’s pockets. The village man burned down his new house, sat amongst the ashes, and wept.

He would be fine, in time. He eventually found a woman he adored, who reciprocated his love, and they had fine and healthy children, for whom he built fine and sturdy homes. Occasionally he heard the folksong on the radio, at festivals, or hummed in snatches by a friend. His eyes would glaze over with the memories and the lyrics never failed to captivate him.

Whoever climbed the high steps found great glory, great wealth, overall greatness.
But she never found heart.
Found glory, wealth, and greatness.
But love she did not find.

“Angreek87″