It's funny how standard, scripted television show moments can cleave your heart in two though I can say it isnt so. Even putting on an icy exterior or creating a witty little quip about the absurdity of love can be so bluntly false. Granted I can fool everyone into thinking that I don't care, or I dont feel deeply about anything when in I do. I do feel, I have felt or perhaps will feel.
The later I don't know if it is plausible. I swig denial daily and love still rears its deformed mug in my mirror. Do I love phantoms, do I love the imaginary inside of reality. Am I in fact a Miss Honeychurch on my way to becoming a Charolette Bartlett? (A room with A View) Who can say though I have my suspicions.
Stepping away from emotional caution and physical repression isn't as easy as it looks with the aid of a cocktail. I don't need a crutch even if it's covered in swarovski crystals. I hope to approach the amourous world fully aware with open arms. Singing "Maybe this Time"(Cabaret) in stuffy car with fogged windows and being kissed politely on the cheek before saying goodnight.
Corny as a cob one can say but shocking enough this happened. In my past, like holding a hand in secret while an English crooner sings on top of brightly lit Hollywood stage and I turn and say, I love you. And I meant it. Love to me isnt about the ideal but the idea, the idea of someone who can teach me to say "I love you, I love you and I will always be true." (Saint Etienne) Then again love can be watching someone leaving your flat "in the middle of winter, feeling cold and vacant in the english snow turning parody more obvious." This happened too and it was special.
You know life can be a gazebo gone pink...
Natalie Merchant: One Fine Day
