We think we fall in love countless times in a day. In a lifetime, we, at least the honest few, fall in love only once and thats it. I fell in love with my beloved when I was seventeen. I fell in love with her just as she began to depart from my life. She moved on, but my heart refused me that luxury. I was in love - irrational, passionate, inexpressible, tormenting, ecstatic love. I fell in love once in my life and shall forever suffer it. I was a coward. I let an immature and pathetically saccharine love letter act as an inefficient surrogate. I should've acted. I should've poured myself out. I should've bared myself to her. I should've been honest. I should've told her. I should've shown her how much I loved her. That's all I have now: recollections, regret, and an infinitesimal impossibilities. What did not come to pass can only be expressed by those miserable lamentations: should've, could've, would've. These are the measureless sources of torment and their imagined fruition the sole source of joy.
Now, as I continue on with the sibboleth of unrequited love pressing on me, I am capable only of lust. Love lies in an interminable realm, a parallel universe, where the moon waltzes ceaslessly with the sun and I hold her in my arms while day blends seamlessly into night.
I was attracted to Elizabeth. She was a buxom blonde - statuteseque proportions blessed with a playful innocent energy. But I still loved my beloved. True, I wanted Elizabeth, but I knew - from that first (second) instant - I would never love her. You fall in love only once. Its the enduring greatness and ineluctable tragedy of human life.
