oh, l'amour
Romantic love by it's very nature is an illusion. We smooth over the rough spots and missing spaces, and fill them in with what our dreams provide us with, then project those dreams onto other people. When illusion is worn away by daily exposure and time, the parts that were missing or unpalatable become points of focus....and that focus shifts your perception away from the dream. And then the beloved can become the quietly resented and judged, the violently exiled, the thing you want somehow to escape. The memory you wish you could expunge. The gnawing in the pit of your stomach, the cold weight on your chest, the corner you peer furtively around, the bar you avoid. The dread-filled hope that passes into a cold sweat. The avoiding of eyes, the uncomfortable silence awkwardly filled. Sometimes there is no going back, no matter how much has been lost. I stand on this edge of my life, looking behind me at faces, some now blurred by time, and try to construct a story that will tell me my future. But the future is also an illusion, or it hides it's face, and will not name itself.
busy
amused
sympathetic