Do things ever really work out?
This Valentine’s Day put me at pause with that thought as I lay dying, staring at the neutral-colored walls of my bedroom while listening to the sounds of silence in an ever-enclosing prison of flu-ridden paralysis.
Time stood still. When it does so, my mind agonizes and over-analyzes.
The past. The present. The future.
All of it.
I think about love often. What it means. What it means to me now. How it should be expressed. How it should be approached and carried out.
I’ve never kept a woman. I’ve only ever admired one for a fleeting moment before she disappeared from my life. Leaving me to deal with the damages, however great or small they may be, to either learn from or discard what was necessary and applicable to my development as a better man.
Linzi was the fairy tale romance. The only evidence I will ever need to know that love exists. Fairy tales for me, however, tend to turn to either nightmares or tragedies of a foregone Shakespearean era.
It was tragic. It was beautiful. It was bittersweet.
It cannot be replicated, merely recited to the best of one’s abilities in a futile attempt to recapture what once made it stand as a classic to begin with.
Her existence was temporary. Her impact was permanent.