It's a bright and sunny Sunday morning and I've had about four hours of sleep and right now I am just thinking, thinking, thinking. My left hand still has residue of breakfast pancakes, cooked from scratch, and the butter is leaving faint stains on the keyboard. I have a project I need to wrap up, and a number of things to purchase next week in preparation for some things that are inevitably ending. (More on that when it's official, but those in LJ-land know what I mean.)
I'm re-reading Mike Gayle because he is such a comfort. These kinds of books, while low on academic prestige, provide a semblance of camaraderie, a literary way of saying, "You're not alone, things will work out fine." I've always felt like a character in a romantic comedy, or a screwball chicklit novel. It's easier to put the world in that kind of perspective, rather than remember all the horrid things people can do to each other.
Because right now I'm wondering why it is so easy for people to leave, why nobody makes it a point to stay. Dumbledore said it so succintly: "The time will come to make a choice between what is easy and what is right." It just saddens me that people would much rather take the convenient route, and disregard the feelings of other people, just because it's easy for them to leave - screw those who were left behind, waiting for an explanation. And there really is no other way to look at it: men leave their fiancees, girlfriends leave their boyfriends, parents leave their children (and vice versa), friends cut off all ties from other friends, dates never show up, dogs leave their masters. And sometimes, it's a good thing, but when the intentions are all screwy and it happens because of fear of SOMETHING, then it's never good.
"Fear is the mindkiller," says the Bene Gesserit philosophy in Frank Herbert's Dune. And I've always thought it was easier to be honest rather than run away. You might as well be upfront about the matter - I mean, it's bad enough if you do something wrong, and then lie about it afterwards. That's like digging your own grave and then lying in it, Dracula-style. But apparently, a lot of people would rather be consumed by their own fears rather than own up to their mistakes. I've always believed that no matter how big your transgression is, there will always be someone to forgive you. The human heart has such a large capacity to harbor anger, but also to forgive. And that is one of our greatest triumphs as a people.
But right now what is pissing me off is people who disappear without an explanation. And usually, since you are not given a proper reason or motive for such an action, you end up concluding that they are just cowards who can't even own up to their own fears. And that, in the end, you are better off without them. But still, a part of you is sad, and it's very easy to blame one's self for the faults of another. But then, if we go by romantic comedy standards, then there is a happy ending somewhere in this. We just have to wait.
And in the end, that is actually the hard part.