I recently saw an
aching heart, my attraction to his pain was instant, the fact that a man could
be scarred that bad was endearing to me. His pain reminded me of mine so long
ago, of a place and time when I could feel without the noises reminding me of
impending doom. His heart was a vision of beauty to behold.
He looked
haunted; he spooked people out of their mind with the way he showed no concern
for regular flirtations. I watched he seemed highborn unlike the rest of us seeking
for a connection we looked lowborn.
The more I gawked
at him, the more I saw his bliss, some how he had made peace with it. He had
let the heart break define him, he had given his heart to the one and if he
couldn’t have her then maybe the whole love thing is fake or he was handicapped
at it.
I could see the
way he looked at me as I sat there holding my drink. He weighed me. He tried to
measure my depth through careful scrutiny and I smiled because he can’t see
my heart or me. All he can see is an attractive girl in a little black dress.
His illusion like
mine is one a storyteller makes when out in a public place and can’t be
burdened with the responsibility of ideal charter. His scrutiny like mine is of
one who seems outgoing yet is somewhat introverted in a crowd. The difference between
the idea of love and being in love.
To love is a risk
as the experience can be accompanied with excruciating pain or immeasurable
pleasure and being without it brings relief though some ring of sorrow often followed
by moments of loneliness.
My question today
is to love or run?
