An Original Story

In his original story, the life that had gone missing was hers. And he in an attempt to resuscitate the relationship had taken it upon himself as the knight in shinning armor to find her. His motives at best were for the most selfish reasons of all; to keep him from hurting like this again. Yet as he wrote it, shaped it, exercised it, codified the blames and injected responsibility into it, she slowly became found and he quickly became the lost one. When it was over, he was no where to be seen; and she was all that there was. How does one begin a quest to better define a relationship only to discover that the one that is lost is in reality not lost at all; but there all the time? How does the one who is supposedly the most present one there, suddenly find themselves no where to be seen? Saying it happens is no excuse. For loosing ones self in the eyes of another is as easy as falling in love. But when that love blinds one to the truth of who is there and who is not, even the late night tapping away on solid keys of plasticity echoing back and forth can not prepare you for the epiphany of sorrow; of loneliness, darkness and  of truth and candor. The more he typed the more she spoke. The more she explained. And the more he listened. By the time his hands finally rested at his side and his back began the slowly pushing hard and harder at the back of the chair, it was if he had spray painted a large billboard on the wall before him in day glow yellow illuminated for all the world to see what he had let slip away.

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