A piece of the puzzle is missing. A space of loneliness which is impossible to be permanently swept under the rug.
I remember, quite vividly, a conversation I had with a friend when I was in the sixth grade. Can you even begin to imagine how wonderful it would be, I said, to fall in love with a woman and spend the rest of your life with her--coming home to her every night, distance be damned--doing everything holding hands?
Why is this so indelibly imprinted on my memory? Why was I so preoccupied with this notion the existence of which was surely premature at a single digit age?
With the benefit of many years of hindsight and pondering on the lessons of experience--the source of personal development--it has become abundantly clear that I am a romanticist who is completely incomplete without the active ingredient of love. The bells and whistle kind without which I don't know what time it is.
So--what's to be done? Do I study the actuaries and categorize that aspect of life as "closed", having run out of time? Better I put my mouth over the exhaust pipe of my car and pay a stranger to start the ignition. One of the certainties of my scene is romance, the absence of which robs me of incentive.
We learn as we live so there's really no choice to be made. I'm functioning so I'm still a candidate. I'm not talking about the dot-com world but rather the upbeat belief that tomorrow is loaded with possibilities that require no invitation or pre-planing. Things can happen just because. I'm not shutting the door to happenstance.
I'm still in the batter's box sporting the lineup name of Hobbs. Roy Hobbs.
There's still gas in the tank.
Who's to say there's not someone out there who feels the same way?