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“There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain… Or so says the
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My favorite books, love songs, movies, the ones that resonated with me, have kept me grieving long after I turned the last page, the notes faded out, or the credits rolled. Because of that, I believed it, because I made myself believe it, and I bred the most masochistic of romantic hearts, which resulted in my illness.
That’s the novelty of fiction versus reality. You can’t re-live your own love story because, by the time you’ve realized you’re living it, it’s over. At least that was the case for me.
Most consider knowing all-consuming love a blessing, but I consider it a curse. A curse I’ll never be able to lift. I’ll never know love again as I did here all those years ago. And I don’t want to. I can’t. I’m still sick with it. There is no question in my mind that for me, it was love. What other pull could be so strong? What other feeling could addict me to the point of insanity? Of doing the things I did
and living with these memories within this ghost story.
There may never be a happily ever after for me because I gave my chance away by becoming attuned to the dark parts. Accustomed because of the year I freed my inhibitions, reacting to rejection and pain and losing all moral sense of myself. These are things you don’t say aloud. These are the type of confessions women who command respect are never supposed to give voice to. Not ever.
“Crazy where a day can take you, huh?”
“Miss me, Pup?”
Time itself is just an invisible line, a measure people made up, right? You know
“The sadder truth is that the only way to conquer the fear of dying is by dying.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
When a man confesses his love to me, I expect him to mean it. I don’t want to question the words’ authenticity. I want to be claimed and owned and ruled and possessed by love.
“You catchin’ feelings for me, Pup?”
“Are we ever going to have a real conversation?” One side of his mouth lifts. “We had a good one not too long ago.” “That’s not what I mean.” “Want to start with politics or religion?” He chuckles darkly at my answering scowl before he shifts, pinning me to my seat as we race forward. “Eggs—runny, coffee—black, beer—cold, music—loud, cars,” he floors the gas. “Fast,” I say through a laugh. “Woman,” he turns and rolls his mirror colored gaze over me. Woman, not women. I feel that comment so much I move to grip his hand, and he pulls it away before I reach it.
“You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than you can in a year of conversation.”
“My rainy days are yours, Dominic. If you want them.” “It rains a lot here,” he says after a few long beats.
“Fine with me. But my sunny days belong to Sean.”
