i'm not sure what my addiction is to painful love. the awkward stuff. i guess my addiction is the nation's addiction. i can't be the only one keeping buffy and angel, willow and oz, angela and brian crackow, or the couple whose names i can't recall – from life goes on, on the air. (although technically i guess no one kept my so called life on the air)
something about the intensity of it i guess. it feels so real. even in its heart wrenching ending…or maybe because of the heart wrenching endings. i'd think i'd fall instead for the campy love stories…the ones that ride into the sunset…my sister and her husband, my folks…hell my grandparents. but i guess since i don't know that love it seems a little too surreal. less realistic than a witch and a werewolf – or a red haired 15 year old version of my self and the geek next door (or was i the geek next door?).
of course even in the painful rending of hearts on television, they manage to love again. usually not with quite the same fervor – but some facsimile or evolution…maybe just the next iteration. i am left wondering if there is a cap though…some magical number or threshold for ache that hearts reach…some finite breaking point, beyond which they can endure no more.
is it possible for heartbreak to break the capacity for love…or is it just fear that stands in the way?
this sounds like a soliloquy from someone looking at an internal instant replay of relationships gone by…