Truth, A Dare
I'm worried about the words that are stuck in my head. There are three sentences in particular that worry me. It is this third grouping of words which follow the sentiments of their preceding incessant utterances that worry me most. This in part because they are the third incarnation of this haunting (and by then, it is a possession) and also because they were profiled by a very honest man.
'You get to fall in love three times.'
- Kurt Vonnegut
His daughter recently released a manuscript of some candid conversations they had about various things, love being one of them, and when she asked him how many times he had been in love, he replied, 'Three. Life allows you to fall in love three times.'
It's a blunt statement about an evasive topic. The impact is deadening and I can't shake the weight. This heft adds a weariness atop the second sentence in my mind,'There's a moment in life where you can't recover from another breakup,' the closing quote at the end of the film 2 Days in Paris.
The first, actually, I've just realized, is not a sentence or even one word, but a set of feelings, a reel of images. There once were words to narrate these scenes, but their meaning faded against the memory of a smile, blurred by speed of the car on the highway, rolled aside by unfolding arms.
Real love, the truth of the heart, is freedom. Words and music (and health) are my freedom, yet they imprison me to this feeling - I'm worried because I feel trapped in my own freedom.
There is a fourth, and it is the final. 'We destroy what we love' - Oscar Wilde.
'You get to fall in love three times.'
- Kurt Vonnegut
His daughter recently released a manuscript of some candid conversations they had about various things, love being one of them, and when she asked him how many times he had been in love, he replied, 'Three. Life allows you to fall in love three times.'
It's a blunt statement about an evasive topic. The impact is deadening and I can't shake the weight. This heft adds a weariness atop the second sentence in my mind,'There's a moment in life where you can't recover from another breakup,' the closing quote at the end of the film 2 Days in Paris.
The first, actually, I've just realized, is not a sentence or even one word, but a set of feelings, a reel of images. There once were words to narrate these scenes, but their meaning faded against the memory of a smile, blurred by speed of the car on the highway, rolled aside by unfolding arms.
Real love, the truth of the heart, is freedom. Words and music (and health) are my freedom, yet they imprison me to this feeling - I'm worried because I feel trapped in my own freedom.
There is a fourth, and it is the final. 'We destroy what we love' - Oscar Wilde.