My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
One Real Love
He has decided, with the same lack of reason so common to much of his thought, that each life is entitled to one real love, but most people settle for something less. They may become aware that it is settling, and so they will sense regret and will wonder what that one real love might have offered. He thought too some of us might find and lose that love and only in its loss would we realize what it had been. It seemed, as often is so, that he had perhaps half a thought and sought to make it more true than it could be.
Labels:
compromise,
losing,
love,
realization,
therapy,
truth
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment