like a frantic inept Lazarus

and i go home having lost her love. and write this book

my pessimistic nature already had prophesied our doom. speaking nervously in dark parking lots i had mentioned my theory on the whole sad courtship debacle, people love love love the chase but when they have it, they realise they don't want it.

that, or people tend to fall in love with the idea of a person, before they truly know them - not that anyone truly knows anyone else anyway, but that's a story for another day - they invent their own backstories, project their hopes and desires, and when reality hits, it's a crushing, lonely blow. it's the proverbial jump-the-shark moment, no one wants to see the end result of courtship, they thrive off the tension and the 'what ifs', will-they-or-won't-they, neatly packaged between the commercials. our nielsen ratings took a dive that first week, and we just never could recover, could we?

if you have a choice of two things and can't decide, take both

yes, mister corso, that's a grand idea and i see what you're preaching, but it's not so black-and-white. we just want it all, and what we cannot have, always pursuing the unattainable and attempting the impossible. something that should always be encouraged in matters of life, career, or education, but in the ways of the figurative heart, it should be a big, blinking, neon "NO". do not attempt, do not pass go, or some such nonsense.

it's akin to those that only want/need the person that will treat them miserably. it's not the same, but it's pretty damn close. WHY on earth do we waste our time, when the rational, sane parts of our brain know that it isn't a good idea? or not even necessarily a bad idea, but just something that essentially does not work? two different expectations, two different sets of desires?

ah it's the morning; and the mourning it is dawning on me too; i had no warning; just a condolence card to tell me that we're through

but really, let's be honest here and admit that it's not the person we mourn, it's not some grand shakespearean tragedy. it's much sadder than that. it's realism: it's knowing that we couldn't make something work. it's another failure to add to the list, and that's what really kills.

i'm sick of these tragic little vignettes. my lexicon is stuck on song lyrics and obscure film references, gushing forth in an overcaffeinated, manic timbre. i can't seem to write about anything else lately. but maybe catharsis is necessary at this point.

"she can't understand suddenly what has happened because she's lost her mind, her usual recognition of self, and feels the eerie buzz of mystery, she really does not know who she is and what for and where she is, she looks out the window and this city is the big bleak bare stage of some giant joke being perpetrated on her."

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