I love books. Call me what you will, but I love them, the spine, and the pages. Filling my bookshelf. Hardback, paperback, I don’t discriminate. I’m a sucker for an attractive cover but I’m not a cover whore. I still read what they’re about before taking them to the counter. Barnes and Noble is my candy store. I see shelves and shelves of information that I want to digest. Who has the time? How can I read them all, and when? Memoirs are my favorite, maybe because I had been writing my own for so long without knowing. Subconscious research. Heavy. Fiction is nice, but I want the real deal. Someone pouring him or her into something and coming out changed. I like to get into other people’s worlds. Sometimes I like it to be something that relates to me, other times I want to be a part of something I’d never experience. Real experiences have always been intriguing to me. If a movie trailer starts with “based on true events” my ears perk up. I’m immediately interested in something that really went down. I’m sure it takes talent to imagine events and feelings. I certainly don’t have that talent.
As cliche as it may be, I believe the idea that we meet certain people in our lives for a reason. Each person has something to teach or show us or us, them. Sometimes they reveal something about ourselves to us. Mirrors. They are all lessons and once the lesson is learned, once they’ve taught or shown us what they are intended to teach or show, we move on; wiser. Until we find the person who is supposed to remain.
The question is, have I learned all the lessons I’ve needed to learn? Am I officially schooled now? Is there a reason why I’m being faced with all of these trials when it comes to relationships? Is there some sort of plan laid out for me that requires me to first learn all of these things? I’d like to think so. I know I’m nowhere near perfect and I feel like I did need to learn these lessons. As each layer is revealed I feel the sensation that I have been sheltered.
On the other hand, I can’t help but wonder if I could have been perfectly happy meeting someone good without having to learn all of these truths. I’m sure I needed to, mainly because I am attracted to, and typically go for the bad guy. This is an unhealthy pattern of mine, I know. Something that I need to grow out of and possibly this is the message I’ve been intended to learn all along. Well, I’ve got it. I’ve got it, okay?
I’m tired of the lessons; I’m tired of the bad guys. Haven’t I done my time?
It didn’t kill him, didn’t even make him stronger; just another day older and no closer to a death that would never come. He stepped from the smoking wreckage of the car and dusted himself down. He’d be sore and stiff for a few days, but that was about all. He wasn’t sure why he still did it after all these years, but then he guessed that if the only thing worth living for was dying, he had to at least try. Times changed, people changed, the world changed, but he remained immutable and alone. He walked on into the cold night and time stretched endlessly ahead of him.
In the end, he said: “Look, I’m a complete and utter asshole. I have a very, very small heart and I can only care for limited periods of time. 37.81 seconds, to be exact. I’ve timed it with my stopwatch. If I go over that time limit, I get dizzy and puke. I can’t care for other people. And if I wanted to love you back, I’d have to get another heart because my tiny, little one cannot support something as huge and complex as love. But I wanna try for you. Granted, I’ll probably have to gouge out someone else’s heart and add it to my own to be able to do it but I hate other people so I’m sure I’ll enjoy killing for love.”
What does one say to that?
It’s simple, really. So I answered: “You already have my heart. So, now, love me back.”