It feels to me like a combination of fears, this perspective. Fear that this idea of love allows for the love you have today (or might have tomorrow) to fall short of forever. Fear that your standards for love should be so high that only one experience should ultimately meet them, and the resulting fear that the only way to recognize and defend the one you want to last is to make (and attempt to live by) a cosmic ultimatum.
This place was unusually homey for a Starbucks, as there was this fall sunlight dropping in through the musty front window, where she was perched on their cushioned bench along the wall, legs crossed, elbows on her lap. She was picking at her scone with one hand and her hair was deep and dark, backlit by orange yellow sunbeams as it fell around her shoulder. She was gazing lazily at the little boy a few feet away who was crawling on his father, a strong man clad in army camos.
It makes answering the ‘how are things going?’ question a very difficult one to answer, because until things are decidedly doing so well you’re almost surprised by it all, you’re really just surviving. Things are going well because you get to be inside of your project and the world revolves around your ideas.
My family’s rooted in New York, where my parents met, my grandma lives, and I think at least a third of my first cousin’s reside. That’s a third of a pretty big number. Ours is a New England family, despite my having been raised in a suburb in Illinois. In fact, prior to my 26th birthday I would have been less disoriented blindfolded in Manhattan than in Chicago.
Doug, myself, and a group of about 30 other Chicagoans managed to forge a bond that’s lasted long beyond our time online together, and through debates, jokes, and heartfelt digital conversations we managed to forge bonds that we did take offline, and many a bar in Chicago thanked us for it. Among the crowd we welcomed people of all shapes, sized, and ages, with a common thread of humor and intellect.