The Love Of My Life

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One man's relationship with his soulmate
655 words
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There once was a man who fell in love with the most beautiful woman in the world. And it was long fall, for she was vastly complex, full of hidden intricacies which would have challenged the casual lover, but fascinated this man. He relished her complexity, for he (perhaps foolishly) prided himself on his large heart, and his desire to find someone with which to share it. He knew if anyone could love this woman as fully as she deserved, it would be him.

As the man continued to fall in love with this person, he realized that her complexity reminded him of a book. Not just any dime-store novel, that one could read in a night and then discard, but a rich, fully-developed epic, far more engaging than anything that he had ever read before, and he was considerably well-read. She was the kind of book that at times he could not put down for days on end, and at other times he needed to tear himself away to contemplate and digest what he had read before he could continue. But her story never left his mind; it kept unfolding in layer after layer until he could only marvel at her scope. And as time went on, and he fell deeper and deeper in love with her, there were times also when he could see his thread running through her narrative, sometimes broader, some times slimmer, sometimes invisible to his eye; but he trusted that he was always there, somewhere. And there were times when whole pages that begged to be read aloud passed across his lips, the sheer beauty of their words singing through him until tears ran down his face.

Of course, there were times too, when he would read whole passages with one interpretation in his mind, only to discover later that his context was skewed, and everything would shift into a new perspective. Or darker times, when it seemed as if the book were closed, and he could not read even one word, no matter how hard he tried. Occasionally, it was almost as if he could see an iron lock around the book, the word "Private" stamped across the cover in letters of purple, like an old bruise that made him physically wince when he looked at her. He often wished, during these times, that he could simply lay open his heart and let her take what she needed until she would let him back in.

Over the course of years, as he kept falling in love with her, the richness of her text nourished his heart until it often times swelled to near bursting. And sometimes, in response to a slight, imagined or real, his heart would harden towards her for a time, until he could open himself up again, reducing the callous-like exterior that he had formed to the size of a scar. And while after a time he had several of these scars of varying sizes, their occasional twinge of pain was as nothing compared to the thought that struck him at times - what if I lost her?

It was a simple thought really, but the enormity that lay behind it created such fear and pain that the very breath in his body would stop as if instantly frozen, only to be slowly released amidst a thaw of tears. The pain presented by even the thought of losing her was so unbearable that he knew he never wanted to experience its actuality. At these times, he would always vow to himself that he would never lose her, whatever the cost.

Like the woman in the story, this tale has no end. It becomes what we make of it - fairy tale, tragedy - this tale is as infinite as time. Only those who are part of the story are allowed to decide what transpires; the rest of us have stories of our own to create.

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