Johnny Cash was once asked for his definition of paradise. He used six simple words to answer what often proves to be a difficult question to most people.
“This morning, with her, having coffee.”
Who is her? I have often asked myself. Where does one find her? How? When?
Of course, I have found her. And lost her. And found her again. And again. And every time my heart broke, it would heal itself through some sort of long forgotten magic, but it would no longer be the same. It would beat less and less for her…
In a perfect world, we could give our heart to someone, and they’d cherish this gift enough to keep it safe. But this is a wicked, wicked world, and people always leave, and soulmates fall out of love, and nothing lasts forever, because forever is just a made-up word. And people always, and I mean always, will drop your heart to the ground. They’ll always drop it.
I became afraid that I’d never find my way to a paradise that would last for the rest of my life. My happily ever after. The ending that I have always felt the story of my life deserved.
When there was no her to wake up next to, it felt like hell. A strange hell, one that was so quiet, so desolate, so destitute, that it felt like being blind, numb, and deaf.
Sartre was wrong. Hell is never other people. Hell is loneliness. Hell is dreaming of her all night long, only to wake up all alone in the morning…
IF you enjoy reading these stories and would like to support me, donations are much appreciated.
You can contribute any amount you see fit via PayPal here.