Leonard Nimoy (Star Trek’s Mr. Spock) wrote in his recounting of a love which ended that when they were together there were three: “you, me and us; now that you’re gone, there’s less than one.” I am now less than one.
My love was not so much a love as an infatuation. We never kissed or embraced. I ached for that to happen. I had allowed myself to become an artist of the beautiful and I painted a picture of such warmth, caring and sharing that I became as a teenager experiencing First Love. I misread positive responses as more welcoming than they were and my overtures went unnoticed. But there were definitely overtures.
Our modern, popular social medium, Facebook, gives us an opportunity to very quickly exchange ideas and share photos. Unfortunately it also prevents depth in communication — it is tangential and superficial. Unless a thought or idea is explicitly presented, it can bounce off the surface with little noticeable impact.
However, it can provide insight. I saw the movement of my adorée’s attentions in a direction other than toward me. Since unrequited affection can be painful to the adorer, the only sensible course is to admit lack of success and move on. True love may not have developed but the loss of possibility creates an emptiness just as painful.
I said “lack of success,” I didn’t say “failure.” As a result of this mini-Love Story I confirmed that an emotional center in me I once thought long dead is still alive and waiting for an entrance cue. It may never be cued but it is there. Yet the evanescence is frightening. (“But now the days grow short, I'm in the autumn of the year“)
Being in the right place at the right time to meet the right woman is like juggling soap bubbles without breaking any. Bursting bubbles can hurt. I hurt. Send in the clowns.
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