the heartache arrives only to answer to the dream of it: the potential for what it could have been. what it was, before things changed. it’s a test (a tortuous one) to try and distinguish fact from fantasy. to introspect impartial as to what was real. him, or just the hope of him.
deep down something cautioned us along, whispered worries our way in the moments meant for contentment. sniffed out dangers lying in wait. found fault lines waiting to trip us up and take us down. but despite it, the curse of the woman. the belief in that pest prince charming: hypnotic, insistent, intoxicating.
every girl has a mr big of her own, we know this to be true. but perhaps it’s not for the magic of it, perhaps not the lovestory. perhaps it’s just all an excuse. to excuse our own excusal of their misgivings, promises with half a heart, impermanent evolution. we romanticize dramatics, drape fantasy round the dance, dream a tale to which only disney’d buy the rights. and before you know it, a life unrecognizable. a love story not our own.
but eventually (inevitably) you come up against a force just as fierce as your naiveté (its convictions, its beliefs, the things it’s sure are right). this wild universe of ours is ever-architected to conjure truths, to shine a light on what we need to see. what we’re pretending we don’t. it intervenes when we’re letting someone else hold reigns too tight. it helps cut us loose when we’re flapping to fly. it stops us from stopping ourselves.
so you choose your only choice: the unknown. you purge the past and the way it suffocates, rubbing skin all wrong. the way it pulls you places you’ve already conquered, sends your head, your self somewhere better left forgotten. better suited for demons. instead you choose the things you’ve yet to have, the places yet to see, the art yet to be inspired. you choose a life as yet designed, a love yet realized. you love, you learn, you let it go. it’s just life.