Jealousy is a tangled vine of ivy that curls around the base of your house. It waits there, untouched by the sun, until you begin to notice the little things, the things that shouldn't count. He doesn't call for two days. Up shoot the vines, around the doors, past the window, blocking out the sun. You try not to notice the leafy fringe around your windowpane. The leaves are plain-faced and homely, and they tilt their dark faces toward the sky and drink the sunlight greedily. He avoids you in the hall. The roots grown downward, thriving in the dark rich soil of your insecurity, reaching deep below the foundation of your house, where they burrow their little fingers between the bricks. When you see him talking to someone else after the game, they burrow into the core of your love, filling your heart with dark leaves and a tangle of dry roots.
Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn’t learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn’t learn a little, at least we didn’t get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn’t die; so, let us all be thankful.
Ask most people what they want out of life and the answer is simple: to be happy. Maybe it's this expectation though, the wanting to be happy that just keeps us from ever getting there. Maybe the more we try and will ourselves to states of bliss, the more confused we get to the point to where we don't recognize ourselves. Instead we just keep smiling, trying like hell to be the happy people we wish we were. Until eventually it hits us; it's been there all along. Not in our dreams or hopes, but in the known, the comfortable, the familiar.
Everything was forever fixed, there would be only peace and happiness. It wasn't until last night, our last night together, that the inevitable question finally arose. I told her, "Something," by covering her face with my hands and then lifting them like a marriage veil. "We must be." But I knew, in the most protected part of my heart, the truth.
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