Love on Trial

Is there something in you that is attracted to the variety of men you’ve loved? Is that an intrusive question? Men come in a variety of packages. For myself, I’d like to think I’d come wrapped in a purple box, with gold stars on the outside. Truth told, I come in a plain brown package with string tied about it.

Happiness then, lies in the clear ideas of what you want and what you can achieve? That’s one interesting point of view. It doesn’t work for me, probably because I learned that when one person wakes to brilliant sunshine, someone else has woken to fog. Nothing in life, then, is ever wholly harmonious. That’s why when I think about ‘love’ I choose only to be confused by it.

The first man whoever loved surely had the thing made out of marble, tough, but prone to cracks. Being in love is something people have done for thousands of years, with varying degrees of success. It is a beautiful thing. I’d never think of it any other way. I think that falling ‘in love’, however, is a precarious follow. It’s kind of like being in prison, except that you hope there’s no way out.

It only ceases to be beautiful when one or the other decides to chip away at what makes it so beautiful. Love can, and must be a brilliant thing, otherwise it would have been given up a very long time ago. It can also be a barbaric and destructive thing and the surest way for one person to completely lose their identity.