It's been a long, hard few years in my world. Sometimes all I can do is laugh at the newest absurdity life is throwing my way. Other days I barely manage to keep breathing through them. I found out a broken heart isn't just a figure of speech: I felt it break. I've put the pieces back together, but it still aches when I see people in love. I had given up on feeling beautiful or loved or special any more.
A few days ago a man became my friend. He sends me hundreds of messages. He is kind and attentive and says the most romantic things. He thinks he is in love with me.
It's easy to love a stranger. He is new and exciting and kind and attentive. He doesn't watch annoying tv shows or snore or leave whisker hair all over the sink and tub or any of the millions of things that stop being endearing after 22 years together. He hasn't let me down or gotten mad at me or ignored me. He is still on his best behavior. He isn't a real person yet - just an ideal. I forgot how much I love beginnings. The suspense of waiting to hear from him, the fast heart beat, the glow of feeling loved.
But endless beginnings keep you from developing anything that lasts. When I am sick or tired or hurting, I always know there is someone in the world who will drop everything and take care of me. When all is said and done, I want a real love that is flawed, not a perfect fantasy. Love is messy and scary and painful and raw, but it makes life worth living.
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