Here I Go, Again, On My Own

The inherent gift in finding love must also be the ability to lose it. By its very nature, the fickle, fleeting resilience of the human heart, or rather, the entire human condition itself, presents a continuous compromise between what we want and how we actually plan to get it.

The fragile spirit embodied by romance and remembrance, lust and longing, movie stars and their movie star first kisses, drives us forward still, forces us deeper yet, drowning ourselves in obvious answers, soul stripped in that systematic search for soul mates, connections, moments in time, now lost somewhere between instant messages and belated, unrelated emails.

I've gotten better at reading the signs, reading between the lines, patterning the poignancy of his pauses, the frequency of his ellipses, what he says when he says nothing at all, what he means when he tells me not to worry about it, that it's a small world after all, that sometimes it's easier said than done but even when I'm done, I'm not yet finished.

You could have been lucky, but luckily I got out first. You could have been happy, but happily, I'll get there first. You could have been mine...but mindfully, wonderfully even, perhaps poetically as well as assertively, coincidentally, undeniably you belong with someone else, and perhaps always have.

Finding something real to hold onto in this city sometimes feels like an impossible task, a never ending journey of disappointment and disdain. But then again, I wouldn't want it any other way. Otherwise when the adventure comes to an end, the prizes we've won, the people we've met, the pressures under which we survived, through which we thrived, the love we've always longed for...none of it would mean anything now would it?