Love is not loving
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If I don't reply to comments or emails about the seemingly inescapable ending of my life with Charles it isn't because they aren't welcome. Until our life together completely unravels or miraculously survives it is hard to know what to say.
I've resisted writing about the bad days, awful happenings for a couple of reasons. He has a right to privacy and I've often felt reluctant to record his foolish and silly doings in this weblog (though I used to on my mostly quiet Live Journal). Haven't you sometimes felt you were reading an act of trivial treachery when people write online about the failings of the boyfriends and girlfriends? Mostly these are very young folks. While the pain is true that is how it goes in your teens and early 20s for most folks.
And what could make for more tedious reading than today was happy: hope revived; this evening was awful: hope dies. The real life equivalents of soap opera are if anything more padded and irresolute than their televised counterparts.
Now that my days with Charles seem to have reached the end time I may write about them hoping that the clarifying power of journaling will if nothing else leave me with a firmer inner archive of the experience.