There’s a reason it’s called “falling...”
In pursuit of ideas while working on my latest essay on the theme “Passion,” I decided to break the seal on a box of notebooks I wrote when I was in my early 20s (boxed and taped up in 1996). Reading my 22-year-old self fervently swear she’ll never fall in love again makes me feel sad, mostly because she didn’t. Almost, but not really. The funny thing is, I can’t decide if I’m better or worse off now than I was then. And until I do, I don’t have an ending.
Is it better to...
have a heart of glass or harden your heart?
make a move or get a move on?
be head over heels or in over your head?
go crawling back or crawl into your shell?
fall hard or fall flat on your face?
lose your head or lose your heart?
Suppose love came knocking on your door. Would you turn it away with a “sorry, all stocked up here?” Pretend like you weren’t home? Chase it down the street with a baseball bat? Or would you smile, open the door, and thank it for being so punctual?
I feel like I’ve spent the last 10 years not paying attention in class and just found out there might be a test.
When I first read the title of this post I thought it was 'failing' not 'falling' so I had to go back and have a do-over. The sheer torture of reading anything I wrote when I was 22 would probably send me into some serious shame-spiral. I did a kind of similar thing where I decided this was my last year to give a shit. I've half-decided that if things don't 'fall together' this year then fuck it, I'm going to quit trying and just be the single guy that has 'stopped even trying.' He's a lesser known version of the girl with three cats and a wardrobe full of jumpers. :)
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