Daniel Aegan

Romance isn’t dead, but it’s ten seconds till midnight. Its breathing its last, wheezing breath as its heart monitor shows the start of the straight line, its steady, repetitive beeping turning to one long, familiar tone.

Love.

We create our own personal versions of the Matrix where chemical imbalances cause us to believe there’s this feeling inside that can shatter any barrier and bring us as high as God in an endorphin-fueled flight toward the heavens. We trust, unconditionally, that love will save the day, conquer all, and wipe away the stigma of stale cliches.

Love is the great deception, the one we tell ourselves. Its codependent familiarity. Its white lies incarnate. Its crestfallen stars, falling from cupid’s puckering anus.

Trust is broken. Love is lost. It returns, though, as a one-sided farce in a king-sized bed under a bloody moon. One person loves, believing their words with all of what they think is their heart. The other repeats it, wondering if the numbness that was once feeling would return if he mutters the same three words over and over like a dried-up mantra.

Carry it in your shirt pocket. Wear it on your finger. Bring it to hell and back. Just don’t expect to return without a demon or two, and not one of the good ones.

Things are good, then they’re not. One day, they’re good again, but tainted. One word from another, and you’re back in the gray area, changing like a chameleon to adapt to your new surroundings. Are you this? Are you that? Change again. Were you really that? Are you this now? Do you even know?

How can you even trust yourself?

The vultures circle in the sky, but they leave for easier prey. There’s water in the desert if you can trick your mind into seeing it. The cactus will prick you if you grasp at it, but it will point you in the right direction if you just ask and keep your distance.

Stay away from the sunrise. It burns.

Stay away from the sunset. It freezes.

I’m not afraid to die, but I’m afraid of what I leave.

I’m not afraid to live, but I’m afraid of the ruination I create.

I met love with a trashcan in my hands. I was called the wrong name and left with an eye-roll. It’s warm and cozy, but the wind howls outside. The branches might snap in the wind, but that’s a chance we take to have the comfort under the tree’s shade.

The writer ends his soliloquy and moves on with his day. There’s work to do and lies to live.

-Daniel Aegan
10/24/18