a jaded kind of beautiful

coalescing:

it is so difficult for a writer to move on from love.  a recounted experience in the form of prose imprints a beautiful memory further into a writer’s heart, reminding him or her of how wondrous the shared love once was.  every combination of pretty words about lust, love, and loss only reminds a writer of how much love he or she still has for the one that was lost.  every poem is another piece of that love, another fragment of a writer’s heart turned to ink, another setback in the journey of moving forward.  a writer falls in love again every time he or she rereads a piece inspired by a lost love, once again remembering soft skin, laughter, and fleeting moments that once felt like forever.  those moments will always be preserved in a paper prison for a writer to agonize over for weeks, months, and perhaps even years.  the words become the love and the pain, and the love and the pain are only more real when they appear on paper.  and, just as words do not fade easily, a writer’s heartbreak will not fade easily.  thus, in order to truly move forward, a writer must cease to write about his or her lost love for awhile.  read a book, attend a party, go out to dinner, play a sport, write about nature and idealized romance and friendship.  forget for a little while.  and finally, once a writer has moved on, he or she may look back and write - without pain, but instead with fondness, acceptance, and perhaps very slight nostalgia - about that lost love.

brilliant.