Metamorphosis –

It’s a risky business this love thing we dabble in. Dive in. Drown in. The significance of it has saturated global culture to the point that without it, without love, we’re, well, without. We sing about it, pray for it, and infuse it into our arts and sciences. Academics want to understand it, artists want to interpret it. It’s just so damn compelling. Here is this thing, this state of being that brings warmth, that feeds our hearts. Gives life to the most secret parts of us. Not unlike when cavemen discovered fire I imagine. It’s pull is that primal.  Love is everywhere and we put ourselves on the line for the chance at it, knowing full well that it may not pay off. Risking the pain of that reality for the shot at achieving the goal. The goal of finding a person out there who is ready willing and able to hold our hearts carefully in their hands. The person who will be our rock, and our soft place to land. The person who will hold us, fight with us, fight for us. That elusive someone who embodies all we want in a partner, and we do the same for them. A lover who is exciting and also tender. A companion to laugh with. A confidant to share this life thing with. It’s a heady temptation to fall in love because when it’s real it will change a person in such a permanent and personal way. When it falls apart it changes us too, in different ways. Ways where sometimes the best we can hope for when we come out of it alive is that we can say we’re “stronger” or “wiser” and maybe that’s true.  It’s just that stronger and wiser live on the other side of bruised and weary. That kind of pain, it lingers too long. That’s where I am, in the lingering.  It fell apart. It fell apart in that catastrophic way that leaves you dazed and wondering how much of it was real to begin with. On one hand I know that surely the lions share was real. On the other hand I can’t help but feel that there’s no way it could have been. Things like this don’t happen to love like that. I mean sure, in movies and books the threat of the fallout is posed, and then just barely avoided in the end. There’s that brief period of emotional torture for about 12 minutes, where both parties are left to reflect and come to the oh so obvious conclusion that they both need and, more importantly, want to make some changes. That the other is worth it, worth whatever it takes. Worth everything. So they have their epiphanies and then come together in the grandest of fashions. The music swells and they embrace, firmly seated back on the path they set out on together in the beginning. More in love than ever. Portraying a dynamic that reinforces a once in a lifetime love ideal that keeps us putting ourselves out there. What about when that doesn’t happen? When there’s no mutual epiphany? When one or both people have to accept that this sacred precious thing between them is lost.  When you have to accept the idea that this man, who touched such tender places in your heart, is not coming back to take the pain away. How do you swallow such bitter disappointment and not let it rot your guts from the inside? Listen I get that this is dark. It would be, because it’s coming from the dark, from the dwellings of a broken heart. Those closest to me have likely long since reached their tolerance for the significance I have placed on this person, on the effect he’s had on me. I get that too. I wish more fervently than anyone that I brought good tidings with me into a room. I wish that grief wasn’t the home for love with nowhere else to go. I wish a lot of things and I’m pretty sure most of them I’m not going to get. So instead of wishing I’m going to share. One week at a time, I am going to tell you a love story. Not the kind with the swelling music. Or the dual epiphany. The kind where when you read it you can taste the sweet and the bitter. You can sigh because you’ve been there. Maybe you’re there now. I’ll tell you the story and hopefully in the telling of it, I’ll be able to bring about the ending of my choosing someday.