A Classic

I've decided if my life were an old movie some characters were miscast. 

The ones I thought were villains surprisingly became more heroic than the heroes I misplaced on their pedestals.  And the leading men turned out to be more suited to the supporting comic roles, never embodying the qualities that make a lead the star. 

And the disappointment at such deluded casting is mixed with an awe that delights unexpectedly. 
And each feelings polarity is so opposed that no one feeling is decipherable.
And thus the confusion that permeates is so muddled it hardly effects.

End scene.


My brother told me once that when we lose someone or something part of what we mourn is accepting that we were wrong.  That one wasn't who we believed them to be, that thing wasn't all we imagined it was and while not possessing whatever it is we no longer possess wears on us what weighs us down equally if not moreso is buried deep inside: our bruised egos admit defeat and whisper I was wrong.

I don't want to be wrong.

I want my Pollyanna hopefulness to be spot on.
I want my ability to love the unlovable be so overpowering that it melts the most spiteful, hating hearts. 
I want to, for once in my life, love the right man and stop falling for holograms of men who will never exist.
I want the men who I expect to be jerks who I need to be jerks for my own closure to not consistently show caring affection and concern.
I want the men who seem unlike any men I've known to be unlike any men I've known and not simply disappear like all their brothers before them.

I want to stop caring for those who care so little for me.

I want to stop thinking of those who shouldn't be thinking of me.

But there's always a surprising twist.
A chance encounter.
An unexpected gesture.

And one role that wasn't miscast is Moi.

Someone has to make red lipstick look effortless and turn mens heads while walking into Starbucks.

I'll keep doing my part.
And one of these scenes, someone will finally do his.