Trust can be such a fleeting wisp of a notion. You think you know someone thoroughly; that the construct of their heart feels intimate and familiar in your hands. Almost as if you and your partner shared the same cardiovascular tissue. Almost as if the panorama of their genius seemed the neighbor to your own psyche. Funny how easily we can be mislead. Sitting pretty atop our heads sits a dunce cap, while our compatriot (our universe made flesh) laughs at our gullibility.
You see, love itself can deceive better than any conjurer ever could. In a perfect world such a sacred emotion would never lead us astray. Our eternal flames could and would only be sparked by one person and one person only: A soul-mate. That missing link to our genetic and spiritual code; that mythic “other half” we so long for. This, an individual born of the same cosmic star stuff that’d no more betray us than they could ever betray themselves. A nice thought isn’t it? Sadly, such a being only exists in a perfect Utopian society where Eros reigns supreme. We, my friend, were not born to such a realm.
The reality is you (I) belong to a harsher grittier dimension. Some call it Earth, others still call it their own personal hell. Either term could suffice. In this our home of uncertainty nothing is set in stone. Passion, fidelity, tenderness, sensitivity, devotion and commitment sometimes seem unnecessarily constant to a Romeo or his would-be Juliet. Honesty seemingly even less vital. Romance for many is just a past time; a game of chance to boost an ego.
Pitifully, I have found myself willingly led down a gilded path more than once. Whispered promises of a shared lifeline continually sculpt me mute, deaf, dumb and blind. Always my dress is tattered by brambles, yet I implore my guide to blaze us forward on the trail. Logic and reasoning I abandon because I so yearn for acceptance. I was (am) a flying flitting girl, white as cream, suffering from the “Happily Ever After” complex. I have ignored propriety for fantasy and worshiped at Venus’s alter in vain. My devotion has offered little reward. Moments of bliss have been brief as a sunset.
Just when I figured I had their outlines memorized (their bodies charted by cartography) I am bloodied. Lies spun from serpent tongues pierced the skin, leaving me searching for a paramedic. These moments, these all too frequent catastrophes, have corroded my faith in Truth. Because you say you love me does not make it so. You can serenade me in flowery song until calamity strikes us dead, but declarations aren’t anything I can suckle warmth from. I desire a hearth and a home, not wasted breath.
I fear I may be finding myself lost in the woods again. Fallen for the same misdirection as before. This creeping suspicion is one I cannot shake, no matter how vigorously I twirl myself around in circles. No, we can never truly know someone. Not really. All we have is their word. . . and words lately have been making me ill. For however well we swim in another’s ocean, we will never reach the depths of their soul. Perfection in anything, especially love, does not exist. We are all fools for love friends. All fools. More is the pity.
“I want characters to do the things I am afraid to do for fear of making myself more unlikable than I may already be. I want characters to be the most honest of all things — human.”
~ Roxane Gay on the importance of unlikeable female protagonists at BuzzFeed Books, Not Here to Make Friends