Introspection, a Chain

He’d looked for love most of his life and not infrequently thought he’d found it, at least for a while, but he’d always realized in time he’d been wrong. That, however, rarely stopped him from forcing relationships to work, or at least trying to, and he’d usually succeed, for a while, usually too long.

And then, … not sorrow, he usually managed to compartmentalize that, but loneliness perhaps, or more probably, boredom; then someone new, not someone he thought he loved, but someone he respected, a truly good person who might provide companionship, but who invariably fell deeply in love with him, a love he couldn’t reciprocate but which, perhaps, he could compensate for with affection, and generosity, and respect of sorts; and then, … something much too similar to the previous link in the chain, something that lasted much too long to end well.

And then, … guilt, a bit of shame and a lot of introspection, perhaps some writing, a bit of playing at making music, or at painting, or perhaps a bit of playing at sports, or a bit of playing at life, and then, … more introspection, looking for a path towards righteousness and goodness, and nobility and honor, and, yes, … beauty in all its dimensions and variations, all its colors and flavors and sounds, all its infinite dimensions, and then. … someone new; hope not quite as dead as he’d thought, old aspirations and illusions resurrected.

And then, …?
_______

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