The illusion

I recently saw an aching heart, my attraction to his pain was instant, the fact that a man could be scarred that bad was endearing to me. His pain reminded me of mine so long ago, of a place and time when I could feel without the noises reminding me of impending doom. His heart was a vision of beauty to behold.

He looked haunted; he spooked people out of their mind with the way he showed no concern for regular flirtations. I watched he seemed highborn unlike the rest of us seeking for a connection we looked lowborn.

The more I gawked at him, the more I saw his bliss, some how he had made peace with it. He had let the heart break define him, he had given his heart to the one and if he couldn’t have her then maybe the whole love thing is fake or he was handicapped at it.

I could see the way he looked at me as I sat there holding my drink. He weighed me. He tried to measure my depth through careful scrutiny and I smiled because he can’t see my heart or me. All he can see is an attractive girl in a little black dress.

His illusion like mine is one a storyteller makes when out in a public place and can’t be burdened with the responsibility of ideal charter. His scrutiny like mine is of one who seems outgoing yet is somewhat introverted in a crowd. The difference between the idea of love and being in love.

To love is a risk as the experience can be accompanied with excruciating pain or immeasurable pleasure and being without it brings relief though some ring of sorrow often followed by moments of loneliness.

My question today is to love or run?