Friday, April 10, 2015


But were there ever any
Writh’d not of passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
Was never said in rhyme.
-Keats, “In Drear Nighted December”

    There are many stories I wish I could write. Stories of love and happiness, of being young and carefree, of faith. These stories are the ones caught, trapped in my head. I feel them bubbling inside of me, but I can’t get them out, because I’m just not quite done with this sad story I’ve been compiling. And I have to finish.
     This sad story of mine follows the lives of two people, a man and a woman, that have difficulty going the same way. It’s a series of moments, the split second of doubt, the passing fancy, the aberration.
    They were perfect. They loved each other to the moon and back. Never a squabble. They lived peacefully and happily. But there was always something tugging at her heart. An aching feeling, not painful, but not subsiding. There was always something telling her to go a different way. To the left instead of the right. Sometimes...she did.
    He was steadfast, most of the time. He always walked straight, and he always walked behind her. He wondered if it was because somewhere something told him she wanted change. He had to stay behind her to make sure he could follow if there ever was a deviation. And there were.

    “Sometimes, at, like, midnight, I wake up and sit up in bed and tell myself that I could hop in the car right now and leave everything behind, start over.”
    “That’s when I pull you back down to bed, and apparently earth too.”
    It’s followed by a chuckle, a smile, and a wistful look in her eyes.


    She sometimes tries to run away. She darts behind trees and people quickly, trying to get out of his line of sight. She was successful once, but when she turned to look at his face one more time it broke her. She went back. He reached for her and held her, and promised he would never lose her again. He apologized, and that broke her as well.
    When they walk now he remembers that time. It’s impossible for him to not think about. It’s constantly reminding him that she wants to stray. And, given the chance, he knows she would. Sometimes it makes him feel like a rock or an anchor. But, is it really good to be the one thing holding a person down?


    “You’re back.”
    “Don’t sound so surprised, you knew I would be.”
    “I never really do, actually.”
    “What are you trying to say, that I’m unreliable?”
    “No, well, maybe.”
    “When we first met you told me to always be honest with you.”
    “Then could you please cover up your honesty with a few white lies?”
    “Yes, actually, I can.”
    Because that was how he kept her. A little honesty here, a bit of dishonesty there, all blended together to form pleasing, untruthful compliments - the perfect recipe for staying put.


    He was always steadfast. He was always predictable. He was always.