It is kind of hard to believe that there’s someone out there for all of us, somewhere. It’s a nice idea and I even think I know who my “someone” is, regardless that I will for many diverse and complicated reasons never meet her. Perhaps the necessary condition for there to even be the possibility of a perfect match or soulmate precisely is that they remain “out there”, far away and at some hyperbolic horizon of impossible attainment. The further and more difficult the connection, the more perfect it inversely – and counter-intuitively – becomes.
I find myself falling a little bit in love with every face that reminds me of her, every smile and gesture or witty remark and intelligent reflection that invokes even the faintest shallow shadow and precious memory of her presence, her intelligence, the way she so effortlessly and eloquently touched my soul just by existing in this world.
Romance is as romance does and I truly, deeply, painfully fear that for all the glorious delirium and unaffected joy or cathartic spiritual emancipation of a sincere and passionate caring bond, there is nothing at all quite so sweet or romantic as unrequited love and this is the dark and empty midnight hotel of my forever-breaking heart.