Drama.
What a loaded phrase: drama.
It lies there as if in all caps, screaming its way through our walls, dripping discontent into our breakfast cereal, and coming out our very pores as the day burns on, sploshing onto the heels of passersby.
DRAMA.
It's a TV Guide descriptor for 57% of everything fictitious. Here we have common life, love, and war in a nutshell. Ta-da, it's drama. The stage is rife with passing out it's pamphlets. And the news. You guessed it: real-life drama.
It makes for terrific viewing. Yeah, most especially when it's not yours.
I used to warm myself by it's fragrant campfire. It was all consuming, overwhelming, and a ritualized madness. It travels in packs, spreads like a virus, and is predictably the drink of choice of lovers and sexually frustrated strangers. And if you're not careful, it'll get on you. It's something to be decoded and navigated.
It's often complicated.
That's the phrase that gets bandied about these days. It becomes the euphemism for the ill-equipped to move on, too lazy to move out, still fishing for apologies, tentatively expecting some leftover guilt-pussy, or whatever other unhealthy activity behooves one or both parties in this former relationship. The remains of this thing, or this fling, gets dragged about like gum stuck on the bottom of a shoe from seventeen and a half feet ago. There's just a vague suggestion of connection. But the truth is it's just dried spittle stretched dental floss thin that only looks like the solid entity you thought you saw.
These dramas swirl around the worlds of my friends and compatriots. And it's hard to miss, whether or not I'd like to tune in.
It's so much more important to not mourn the relationship, but to celebrate the freedom, the chance to strip off all of the layers of regret, disappointment, selling out of yourself, your character, your every desire that got overshadowed by the ill-shapen object that was this failed memory. Something dies when a relationship ends. Great. Let it.
It's best to rocket off to a place of healing. Don't get messed up at the bottom of a pint of Ben & Jerry's. The end was nigh for far longer than most people give themselves credit for: it's the rote memorization of the things to say, the empty feelings you have toward anything they have to say, the overall boredom, or the guilt feels for leaving them alone with your friends. Don't make a career of it. Get out!
I've known people who never got over their ex, that one ex. They never let themselves get caught up to the present day. They continue to leave that door open for them to re-enter: a year, five years, ten, or more down the road, thereby continually rotating through the same cycle, meeting the same failure, again and again.
Why do we of the human persuasion continue to do it? Why does it take so much time, so much effort to realize that being honest with ourselves is key? The rest will follow.
Just let go.
What a loaded phrase: drama.
It lies there as if in all caps, screaming its way through our walls, dripping discontent into our breakfast cereal, and coming out our very pores as the day burns on, sploshing onto the heels of passersby.
DRAMA.
It's a TV Guide descriptor for 57% of everything fictitious. Here we have common life, love, and war in a nutshell. Ta-da, it's drama. The stage is rife with passing out it's pamphlets. And the news. You guessed it: real-life drama.
It makes for terrific viewing. Yeah, most especially when it's not yours.
I used to warm myself by it's fragrant campfire. It was all consuming, overwhelming, and a ritualized madness. It travels in packs, spreads like a virus, and is predictably the drink of choice of lovers and sexually frustrated strangers. And if you're not careful, it'll get on you. It's something to be decoded and navigated.
It's often complicated.
That's the phrase that gets bandied about these days. It becomes the euphemism for the ill-equipped to move on, too lazy to move out, still fishing for apologies, tentatively expecting some leftover guilt-pussy, or whatever other unhealthy activity behooves one or both parties in this former relationship. The remains of this thing, or this fling, gets dragged about like gum stuck on the bottom of a shoe from seventeen and a half feet ago. There's just a vague suggestion of connection. But the truth is it's just dried spittle stretched dental floss thin that only looks like the solid entity you thought you saw.
These dramas swirl around the worlds of my friends and compatriots. And it's hard to miss, whether or not I'd like to tune in.
It's so much more important to not mourn the relationship, but to celebrate the freedom, the chance to strip off all of the layers of regret, disappointment, selling out of yourself, your character, your every desire that got overshadowed by the ill-shapen object that was this failed memory. Something dies when a relationship ends. Great. Let it.
It's best to rocket off to a place of healing. Don't get messed up at the bottom of a pint of Ben & Jerry's. The end was nigh for far longer than most people give themselves credit for: it's the rote memorization of the things to say, the empty feelings you have toward anything they have to say, the overall boredom, or the guilt feels for leaving them alone with your friends. Don't make a career of it. Get out!
I've known people who never got over their ex, that one ex. They never let themselves get caught up to the present day. They continue to leave that door open for them to re-enter: a year, five years, ten, or more down the road, thereby continually rotating through the same cycle, meeting the same failure, again and again.
Why do we of the human persuasion continue to do it? Why does it take so much time, so much effort to realize that being honest with ourselves is key? The rest will follow.
Just let go.
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