someone else’s story


“Just knowing you exist changed the world for me.” — Tiffanie DeBartolo

There are days where we are part of an unseen whole. It is what it is – and we are what we are. There’s a kind of chaotic peace that comes with that realization. It is a song born of restlessness, a passion born of four leaf clovers and enough heat to exact change from iron. Call it a recognition of things beyond fact, a weighing of that which is beyond measure. The label is a pale thing, comparatively. It identifies, without being. It is a piece of paper, nothing more.

I am many things, but conditional and fickle is not among them. This doesn’t mean I don’t have questions. This doesn’t mean that I’m okay. This doesn’t mean I’m not upset. But that’s the thing about love – real love – you can be angry at something someone did, but still hold them in your heart. Love, in a way, is always a test. Two people who are truly in love cannot stay angry with each other for very long, because the good feelings always win out. The heart is calibrated for forgiveness, for making up, for tipping the scales. Mine does not hold a grudge. It does not know how. And life, really, is too short for that.

Know this: everyone is a hostage of his own heart. I am a willing, foolish victim of its tyrannical ways. You are a moth, desperate to avoid the flame you so desire. Or perhaps you are the flame. Or perhaps you are the fear. It doesn’t matter. Love allows for the mess. The silences, the stumbling, the Captain Morgan at three am, when you have to be at work by seven. Love is a second cup of coffee in the morning. Love is a phone call at 6:30 am. Love is there, even when the light’s off. Even when your back is turned. Even when you try to pry it out of your heart. This is not a lesson. This is just the truth.

We all make mistakes. Sometimes, we all run from love. But on the best, most insane days – we fight for it. We take a stand. We stop bluffing, and blundering, and coming up with reasons made of matchsticks. There are days where we are part of an unseen whole, where even the sunlight is a reminder of things we have been.

But this is not my story. This is not your story. This is an anniversary that hasn’t happened yet. This is someone else’s love letter. This is the truth within the lie.


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