Closing Doors

Sometimes love isn't enough.

Moving on is the most difficult thing in one's life to contemplate.

It's a hard concept to swallow... and an even harder pill to try to force down someone else's throat. There is no slice of cheese that one can wrap it in and no glass of water with which to wash it down.

It must be placed in one's mouth, the bitter medicine enveloping the tongue, and swallowed dry. The lump in the throat as it makes its way down is a constant, enduring reminder.

Sometimes you close a door and sometimes it's slammed in your face. Only one side has a doorknob. From the outside, light and shadows leak under the door, playing out like Plato's cave.

We place too much emphasis on love. We give it magical powers to heal wounds, to make us whole again. We assume that when someone loves us, we are fundamentally changed into a new creature, one rather better or prettier than before. The reality is that we are blackbirds, not cardinals. We will always be blackbirds. But we can love each other as blackbirds too.

Last night I shut one door while simultaneously I may have gotten another one shut on me. I never said I wasn't a complicated fellow.

The funny thing is, with the former, she may not even remember today. But it is enough that I know it.

As for the latter, I wish I could say for sure.

Because it has, despite everything, promise. It's a campfire in the snow. It could just be something to keep me a little warm on a cold evening.

But then again, maybe... it's something more. Maybe it's what keeps me alive through the night.