Unhappily ever after.

She: "i hate it when my illusions about the world are shattered ... it was much more comfortable having those illusions"

I: "sometimes what lies behind illusions can be more beautiful. it's just not a very pretty kind of picture, not like illusions which are nice and shiny. there is grit but also beauty in reality"

She: "a world where true love is a rare commodity, where infidelity is a norm, that's not what i'd necessarily consider more beautiful"

I: "would you rather live with the fear of an illusion always on the verge of breaking"

She: "when i'm living in an illusion, i dont know it's an illusion"

She asked if I believed in true love, amidst the broken marriages and relationships that seem to be happening with alarming frequency in recent years. If true love exists, why do relationships fall apart? If true love exists, why is it so hard to find? Maybe true love does not exist. Then, why do people get married? To live unhappily ever after?

The growing disillusionment in her words assumed form and fury in the voice of another who I had lunch with recently. The latter, a self-confessed swinging bachelorette, was ranting about all men being bastards. She even wanted me to attend some business cocktail so I could see for myself what idiots (and bastards) the men were, and we could have a good time laughing AT them. I did not go.

There was also something different about her that afternoon. When we last met three months ago, she seemed happy with the new job. She was bringing in sales, and I suppose, from her healthier glow, keeping saner hours. I thought, and told her so, that she looked very attractive. She continues to be doing well in her job, and she still looks good. But, there was a hard glint in her smothering eyes, which seemed darker than before. Defences. Anger. That probably explained the unsolicited and explicit confessions of her liaisons over lunch.

Is The End over-rated? In The Big Break-up's head-on collision of pain and confusion, tears and anger, it is easy to forget that things can go wrong much earlier; sometimes, from the beginning. People can get together for the "wrong" reasons. People can also continue to stay together for the "wrong" reasons. It is easy to rant about the wasted years - your youth and "better" years given to another whose heart was already not with you a few years into the relationship; the opportunities that slipped away. It is easy and reassuring to tell ourselves that it was all a mistake. And so, it was, in a sense. But, what if it was meant to be? What if, it was something that you had to go through? People do change. And sometimes, you have to walk through fire to shed your old skin.

Without Endings, there can be no new Beginnings. Unfortunately, some people only see the Endings. Perhaps, that is why some people do not believe in true love, or stop believing. And that, to me, is more tragic than if I was to be told, that true love does not, and never existed.


Hung out.

"I have no professional training as a counsellor, I tried my best, and I have no regrets about everything said to you and about you (including the GOOD things)."

My thoughts ticked as I watched and followed the words that were not contented with content, but pulsed with intent. They pointed the way - to a familiar looking path that I walked not too long ago. (And I remembered the anonymous message that was left for me here about my choice of content. My entries dwindled in those few months, as I first seethed, and then mulled about what was said. I never forgot the message, but I remember it for a different reason now.) This is now his path, and this is where he wants me to go. I followed. And, I watched.

When I finally looked away, I wondered why I did not feel the urge to defend my words, or correct assumptions and perceptions.

(Too many words. Too much noise. The art to writing is in intimacy. Embrace the words as they rush into your head and fill all your senses. Breathe the myriad essence of their top notes, the intricacy of blends, and the lingering scent long after. Taste and appreciate the lightness of their simplicity. The art to writing is also in humiliation. Bare your softest core to the world. But, also know how to hold back when you have to. Never let your words overwhelm you.)

I suppose it is this. That it is not my intent to engage in a war of words. Touché? I think not. And, that quite possibly, it is not his too. Having had only three hours of sleep the night before, and then having to work the entire Saturday, probably helped to numb my senses too. Heh. Or else, I'm just one nasty hussy. Not.

Instead, I opened the door to yet another person. Perhaps it will help. Perhaps it will not. Who knows?

I only know that all around us, life continues to go on. Time did not stop for me two years ago; and it still has not. In a way, I am glad for that.


Tales from the crypt.

Dense - moi?

My mind skipped too quickly over the mumbled words before it registered the intent behind them. Oh. Ohhh. Of course, I could always blame it on the earache and the sleep debt. Heh.

Another Numero Uno? Wahlau. Probably "something in the air" again.