“Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, it’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; love shouldn’t be one of them.”
It is when I pen these romantic musings that the pain subsides. Akin to when the sun peers through the clouds and calms the sea. The irony is that she was my moon. My light in the dark, my keeper of midnight secrets.
I had convinced myself, and perhaps it is my own fault for having bestowed upon her the qualities and virtues of perfect love that she would be my epic love. I clung to the hope that we would grow old together. Despite the many deceptions, the numerous times my feelings were dismissed, and the myriad of instances I had been cast aside while she considered the prospect of love with others…I remained faithful to her and to our love.
Where I had given up on others for lesser offenses, I did not give up on her. When love endures all things, believes all things, and hopes all things…
It pains me to discover I adhered to that understanding of love, alone. But I must ask myself, where was she in all that time we shared together?
Because in retrospect, it felt as though she was there with me every step of the way. The way she smiled at me with her eyes provided me with a sense of security. The way she allowed me to guide her with love and passion, and the way she met my desire for her with what felt like her desire for me, gave me peace of mind that what we shared belonged exclusively to us.
It was all those moments between us that inspired me to be a better man for her, and to find ways to provide her with the security she needed. For every obstacle that arose, I found a solution to keep us moving forward, to keep us moving toward our goal of sharing a lifetime together.
I gambled on love, because love is supposed to last. Instead, I learned that nothing it wasn’t love, but rather the illusion of it, and instead of being my last love she became my last heartbreak.
Despite my desire to fight for her and for what we shared, I’m convinced it would be a futile effort in the face of silence, absence, and distance.
Even if it is true that: “When love is not madness, it is not love,” as relayed by Pedro Calderon de la Barca…
The insanity of such madness—by repeatedly pursuing her and expecting a different outcome—is merely something that would drive her further away. Perhaps it is best that I live in this asylum alone.
Felix Alexander Writer 