It's the Oddest Thing
I know I’ve mentioned it before but, hell, I can’t find a reference link this moody night. Sorry.
It’s late. I’m weary.
I remember this: We were hurtling north on the Interstate...in the dark...mesmerized by white stripes. I found myself thinking: “I can forge a life with her”.
She was thinking of another.
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posted by Jonas | 3/04/2010 10:48:00 PM
14 Comments:
I hear you man. I was trying to forge and was presented with a book about self growth and how to become full one must be left alone to grow. I did and she started dating because I wasn't paying attention. Respecting her wishes gave her her out.
Pleased to meet you, sunnyray. Life's full o' mystery, no?
If it weren't for lovers' tears, we'd have no oceans.
The Generals Daughter, one of the better Travolta dramas, loved Get Shorty and Be Cool for comedies, dealt with betrayal in a very succinct way and has always stuck with me.
Had a similar experience a couple years back, Jonas. I thought I'd found 'The One'... he completely stole my heart... and while I was imagining a future together, he was looking for the perfect opportunity to bolt.
There was an ocean of tears...
But now, it's water under the bridge. Life has moved on...
A very tender picture. It makes me want to trust again.
I've been down that interstate too,
yet the side roads seem wide open.
Ouch. This was so captivating in it;s simplicity and pain. If only we could send our love out into the universe and always have it returned. But sometimes the universe feeds on the hearts of man. So sorry.
Pain shapes us much more than joy.
But you have forged a life without her. wtg.
Keep on the look out dear one. It's never too late to find that one who sees the same life as you see.
yes, all that we women want from you guys is ur time & attention! I am glad a man has finally understood that.
Well meant, well scripted!
Smita, you are really quite right there, it wasn't about attention, it seems she came back for financial security and now that hers has changed she has dumped me (again).
Beautiful.
shit. man. I can't write like you can.
One's appreciation of writing is SO subjective, no?
Some love Hemingway. Some Faulkner. Each so different.
That's just the way it is with all the arts. It's an intensely personal, visceral thing.
The fact that something I happen to write pleases another pleases me no end.
The fact that I traveled down a road or two with a companion traveling in a different direction saddens me to this day. Sadder still, it's happened more than once.
Repeating our failures is a human fault, one that haunts us for our whole life. Diversity in writing is the spice of communication.
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