all around me they fall
sometimes you just have to write it down. i would apologize for presuming an audience, but i would have posted privately if i really aimed to spare you. instead, i am minding my manners behind the cut. read on if you please, and ignore it you don't.
they fall in love all around me don't they?
this is the story of someone's life:
he calls her, who he has known for many years. since before his studies in gernamny, parsing the phenomonology. since before the year at oxford spinning at parties where chelsea clinton was getting her drunken grind on. through all this he loved her. quietly. not silently,no. but unobtrusively, respectfully and somehow all the more passionately for that. but two weeks ago, he called her and spoke up. he spoke clearly and loudly and long.
i don't know why it happened then. was it the fulfillment of a personal resolution or an erruption of some long held, hidden power to tell all the truth? for this story, the answer doesn't really matter. why it happened is not the fascinating part. what inspires is that she answered him. answered him the way Byron would have, with tears and lofty affirmations--with anguish and assurance and finally, with an acceptance that was unexpectedly joyus.
"come to me." she asked.
and he did.
later, she will also come to him. bearing all the ridiculous, transcendant, adoration that a Romantic play write would script. she'll have the radiance of a true believer. a girl in love.
i have no wish to evaluate this story. it was told to me on a sunny, cold, street corner. the boy who confessed it kept running his hands through his dark hair. mad curls, of course. the color of his eyes startlingly bright in the ordinary blue afternoon.
i told him how happy i am for him and i meant it. every word. every gushing gesture. i am always happy for love when it finds new apostles.
but oh, how i grow tired of watching them fall around me. and how i am tempted, in my fatigue, to despair.
they fall in love all around me don't they?
this is the story of someone's life:
he calls her, who he has known for many years. since before his studies in gernamny, parsing the phenomonology. since before the year at oxford spinning at parties where chelsea clinton was getting her drunken grind on. through all this he loved her. quietly. not silently,no. but unobtrusively, respectfully and somehow all the more passionately for that. but two weeks ago, he called her and spoke up. he spoke clearly and loudly and long.
i don't know why it happened then. was it the fulfillment of a personal resolution or an erruption of some long held, hidden power to tell all the truth? for this story, the answer doesn't really matter. why it happened is not the fascinating part. what inspires is that she answered him. answered him the way Byron would have, with tears and lofty affirmations--with anguish and assurance and finally, with an acceptance that was unexpectedly joyus.
"come to me." she asked.
and he did.
later, she will also come to him. bearing all the ridiculous, transcendant, adoration that a Romantic play write would script. she'll have the radiance of a true believer. a girl in love.
i have no wish to evaluate this story. it was told to me on a sunny, cold, street corner. the boy who confessed it kept running his hands through his dark hair. mad curls, of course. the color of his eyes startlingly bright in the ordinary blue afternoon.
i told him how happy i am for him and i meant it. every word. every gushing gesture. i am always happy for love when it finds new apostles.
but oh, how i grow tired of watching them fall around me. and how i am tempted, in my fatigue, to despair.