Her creative mind left malnourished destructively devoured itself. Neck deep in bland security, the soulless high walls left her painfully out of touch with her gypsy-esque beginnings. Eventually she chose passion over love, and like a fool that played with thorned stems – in her bored and middling years she dismissively rejected the blossoms.
The time drifted. He watched his love slip away and chose to care for her in passive silence, for there he found no rejection. He treasured her with a distant heart, and pretended the distance shielded him from the pain.
The deafening mistrust grew until their love went unspoken and numbingly vacant. Dream years past, barely recognizable pictures, only faded images and wrinkled memories remained.
I listen intently to their explanations and their half-hearted attempts to repair and amend, confusedly desperate to feel both lovingly wanted and shamefully rejected. Neither wants this familiar misery to end but they also cannot bring themselves to begin again.
I take no sides in this well-worn theme. The time glossed over with children, weekends, vacations, and of course their share of tragedies. But these weren’t the lives that either imagined, enmeshed together with the disarming comfort of the passionless familiar.
Nearing the end of this play, in the autumn of their years – they feel saddened to stay, but compelled to move on. An unknown future awaits – and at this crossroads I encourage them to follow their passion and leave the door open to the possibility of a beautiful if not distant friendship.
They spoke of past innocence and old adventures while the conversation ran its course. She kissed him one last time. As she drove away, she contemplated the good times they’d had so long ago, and with it came the return of that old familiar pain. When she left, the red lights blurred, and the snow turned into rain.
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