Twice now in my still-short life I have felt utterly heartbroken.  The two men I met who made the world stop moving left under less than desirable circumstances.  With each of them I cried until my soul cracked.
I was trapped in a whirlpool of self-doubt, anger, and sadness.  In my head I was being ridiculous.  The relationships were truly inchoate.  No real promises were broken.  No furniture needed to be divided.  I didn’t even have to replace my copy of The Big Lebowski (again).

But for different reasons, those two heartaches stopped me.  Letting go seemed no less daunting than telling gravity to take a hike – or worse, like a personal affront to some great cosmic plan.  If I let go too soon did it even happen?  Was it a test to see if I could hang on?

Each time, out of despair and a need to explain why my crazy was justified, I began to write my love story.  What happened was that I got bored.

It’s hard to listen to yourself whine after fifteen pages.  After five pages I was only pushing forward so that mankind could benefit from knowing about the sort of love that never really existed in the real-life version.

And it turns out the excuses just don’t hold up long when you see them in clear type.

Each time I found that I would rather do something than think about things that were already my past.  During my first epic love story, I remembered that I needed to change a headlight on my car.  Laundry was sitting there, waiting to be done.  Socks needed to be purchased.  The mundane details of everyday were more important.

I wasn’t over either of them, but life had moved on, and I was swirling along with it.