This I know about myself. When I love it is deep and it is forever. My heart has been broken (Broken?! Hell, try shattered.) enough that, much like a horse, it doesn't become spiteful or hateful, but rather acquiesces and acknowledges that the rider has ownership. It's just who I am. At times it's a frustrating feeling, I would really like to be able to despise some people or even just forget about them, but mostly I just bend with it. Still, I've said it before and I'll say it again - it's an odd thing to feel love for a man while continuing to feel love for another (or others as the case may be).
And it doesn't even matter if that love involves a commitment or not, whether there's sufficient R.O.I. (Return On Investment) or not. It just is and there's no denying it its existence. It's an insistent perplexity, a beguiling conundrum, an entrancing enigma. I'm not questioning what I feel - I'm just looking at it. Why? It's what I do - it's the ever curious cat that prowls the trappings of my very own modus operandi. Besides, it's a rainy November day... what better to do than to go pensive on heartache and heartwake (I invented that word - yep, you saw it here first). I'm just pondering is all... don't get all weird on me.
While John and I talked about me finding someone else eventually, moving on, all that horrible clichéd crap that (it seems) one must discuss when one's mate is dying, I only said that I would try in an attempt to appease him and quell his fear for me. I never really expected or even really anticipated that I'd find what (who) I have, nor that I'd feel to the depth of what I do. It's rather redoubtable that I do, only because I've been able to stand back far enough to watch the fortress walls crumble (I never have been able to build them sturdy enough), and in watching them crumble knowing that I was leaving myself open once again. Did I even care? Not much - c'est la vie, non? I was more pleasantly (in a scratching a deep itch sort of way) surprised than anything.
What's my point? I don't have a point. Except maybe this: Love ought to be as natural to us as walking is. Do we stop walking because we stumble? Nope.