Depending on which direction we are naturally inclined to point toward, for most of us, attraction to the opposite gender is a tender distraction, one which inevitably veers us off course.
Of course, since most of us are brought into being without an innate sense of purpose, bumping into others along the path toward the end, these innocuous collisions usually end up providing a healthy diversion. However, this amorous entertaining and flirting with disaster can also prove quite precarious.
In such seemingly spontaneous, yet truly highly prescribed interactions, one is liable to eventually lose one self. And eventually, the ensuing epiphany brings one to realize that a misalignment has occurred—that suddenly one is off-target, off-kilter, that equilibrium has been off-set, that one's inner-balance has been upset by the weight of another.
This is when we attempt to compromise and often delve further into oblivion, the state of déjà vu, where you have forgotten that you have endured all of the same once before. It is then that we try to blame something outside ourselves in order to comprehend the muddle we are in, and most often become more entangled in the cobweb adhering to the edges of madness. The air becomes thinner as we struggle. Some of us simply concede to bleeding and getting the life sucked out of us. For some other fortunate few, we relax, regain our composure and unravel ourselves sticky-string by sticky-goo from our relationship's glutinous residue and inconvenience.
The process of emancipation usually takes a lot longer than we would like it to, and almost always requires the square of time it took us to stumble into this scam of rapture and romance, the programmed forfeiture of the self to involuntary servitude.
But as I am merely human, I gleefully fool myself into believing that there is still hope.
the art of love
l.m