I have a certain fear. I don’t think there’s a name for it, though I’m certain I can’t be the only bearer of it. When I experience a new kind of happiness, for there are many, I fear that losing the person involved in it, means never finding this kind of happiness again. Never experiencing it again. I attach the feeling to the person and I make it unique. A solitary instance of joy. I believe there will be others; I am an optimist in that regard, but never the same one again.
Happiness does not repeat itself. For it is bound to the unique set of circumstances in which it was found and experienced. It is conceived as a result of an exclusive weaving of human interaction during which a connection was made.
Exclusive being the operative word.
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote that “there are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice,” and I couldn’t agree more.
Regardless of whether it was a friend, a lover, a sibling, a parent, an acquaintance, or even an idea; whether it brought you to your knees after it had elevated you, whether it illuminated everything around you and inside of you before it made you gravitate towards a black hole, it was and will always be one of a kind. There is merit in this, and one can even claim that this is the beauty of it. But sometimes…oh sometimes the loss feels unbearable.
What is possibly even more extraordinary is the fact that even with the same person, this very feeling alters, evolves, mutates, as it adapts to its new environment while it feeds off its two hosts. As the creators transform, so does the feeling, its strain dependent on a dynamic, the force with which the two humans express and embody love.
So this fear…is what has often kept me rooted in the past. Trying to relive moments I’ve safely stored inside my head. But memories are fickle; the longer they reside inside your frontal lobe the more warped they become, until all they are is daydreams.
Desperately trying to reclaim the chemical reaction that put your limbic system into overdrive, you rewind and replay, but in the end your addiction consumes your present and deifies ordinary aspects of a seemingly extraordinary encounter. And you become a prisoner of your own life.
I’ve recently begun to crawl out of this cell. Turns out the bars have always been wide enough to slide through. Can’t say I’m out of the woods yet, but I can definitely see the sky…and it is starlit.