"They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself"
-Warhol
Each second without her seems like an age. An entire era has passed in my head.
Ancient and powerful civilizations have risen from nothing, mud huts. This village has climbed to ultimate power and technical prowess; smooth marble temples and pristine golden statues. In the internal clock in my imagination an age has passed. These fictional empires have seen their cities crumble to greed and pride. They have seen the end of days. Dust now. Ruins.
The timespan in my mind's eye; an aeon.
Solid rock to granules of sand.
People tell me that you’ll find another one, that the second love is always stronger. What about the rare lucky man that finds his the first shot? Settle for something less? pfft. Malarkey I say to the former. Malarkey.
What if the second love is the same person, just rekindled? Questions nobody has the answer to.
How many people out there would you defiantly jump in front of an unrelenting train for? How often does an emotion like that come along and give you the strength to take up arms and wage a war against unknown odds? Once. I really do believe that. Once. That feeling is worth fighting for. Even below-the-belt type fighting is acceptable-- claw, scratch, punch, spit, bite.
Fisticuffs will be had, friends.
Alas, it seems to be an effort in futility. I spend so much time sitting on my thumbs… anxiously I might add. It seems the wall in front of me in two hundred stories tall and I only have three feet of rope.
I continue to move toward an for an apparently aimless goal. There is no real driving force behind the man- besides the need to stay busy. The prospect of classes don’t particularly interest me, busy-work on my truck or yard upkeep just seems a stopgap to delay the dog. I'm capable of living and enjoying life and what it has to bring. It's just that the prospect of living life without that palette seems much less vivid and colorful.
Sometimes, like right now, it feels like I’m trying to stop an elephant with some fly paper.
'C'est la vie' ... is that right?
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