But mostly I just wonder: how did it get so hard? So confusing?
You know, when I was a little girl I had this notion of happiness, things working out as I wished them to.
Fantasies: of working hard and becoming successful at what I wanted to do. And of love. Someone would meet me and fall in love with me and I'd fall in love with them and we'd want to be together so we'd try to do that.
Except, you know, these aren't fantasies. Not always. Not to everyone. They are just extensions of hopes and sometimes, even, realities.
Sure, in those fatasies the love looked like the latest star on the latest hot TV show, and my successful job was as a film maker or a rockstar. And, you know, success meant a whole lotta money.
But the gist is the same: want, try, work, have. With a little luck and kindness thrown in for seasoning.
So, I guess, really, the question is: when did it get so hard to even try. I hear these stories. These crazy stories. She loves him and he loves her but he also loves her and wants him and it's complicated and hard to explain and then there is him, you know HIM, he's the real problem, the real complication. Or, you know, there is this thing. This job, they want. It's not an unreasonable job. Not king of the world, president of the galaxy. Just a job many have he also wants but can't have because first has to do this, then that, and then maybe even this other thing, to get what he wants, and it wont be exactly what he wants but he wants it. So you know, first, maybe, he'll do this other thing.
I guess I don't understand.
You love him? Tell him. And tell him what that means to you and what you want when he loves you back?
You want that job. Try for it. Do something. Do something FOR something you want, imagine what life might be like if things weren't so complicated. Imagine, for a moment, the most complicated things you can think of like an icecream cone, melting away. Or a detail, smudged on the sideline.
Is it hard. Yes, hard. Not that hard. Not as hard as always finding a way to explain in new complications.
I don't get it. Or maybe I do. Life is ripe for complications and risks invite further complications. And in the end, nothing hurts more than having your heart broken by rejection or dissapointment or failure.
Except one thing, one thing hurts more. Breaking you own heart, slowly, or boiling it whole. Like a frog who jumped in the pot even though he noticed the flame was on, contented that the heat would rise so slowly he'd never notice his own demise.