Never regret anything you have done with a sincere affection; nothing is lost that is born of the heart. ~ Basil Rathbone
For the first time in the past five years since my ex-husband left, I am seriously considering opening my heart to a man. Five years is a long time, and then again it isn’t.
It’s a long time not to have intimate contact with another human being – a comforting hug, a passionate kiss or even just a simple kiss on the cheek, a warm body to feel, to possess, to become one with. Sounds cheesy I know.
Or maybe it just sounds cheesy if you don’t believe in love anymore.
And so I guess that is where I am at. Do I really believe in the idea of romantic love anymore? I want to say yes. The head that aches to lay itself on a strong chest wants to say yes. But there is an even bigger part that shakes its head at the thought.
Ridiculous. Absurd. Cheesy.
And it’s not just the lack of physical contact that makes five years a long time, but it is equally the emotional aspect. Last Saturday I stood on the edge of the sidewalk to watch as the children dressed in their Halloween costumes walked by in the Halloween parade, and every time I saw a really cute or funny costume I would literally turn my head to comment only…there was no one there to comment to.
I’m no stranger to feeling a bit alienated in a crowd, but it feels now that alienation is growing larger. Is this really it?
I know I once believed in the idea of love most sincerely. Oh how I loved that man. There were no pretenses. I loved him wholly and fully with every fiber of my being. If I never experience a single kiss again or equally an embrace, I can always smile with sincere affection at the memories of the one love I did experience.
But it was beyond sad to watch as that love morphed into something ugly, something bitter, something resembling hate. It was a pain to make one wish for death. Incredible but true.
It gives me pause to believe in the idea of love again. It died once; it can surely die again and again and again.And yet there is still something inside that meekly raises its eyes in a fragile hope.
Possibility. Maybe. One day.
Maybe one day I will believe in the possibility of sincerely loving again.
Categories: Literary Shenanigans