Well, I did it. I went out and saw The Lake House. It is exactly what I expected it to be, except for the ending. I won’t spoil it, but the fact that I’m surprised must say something about me. I think it would have made a much better novel because, for me anyway, suspension of disbelief is a lot easier to achieve when it’s within my own imagination. That said, it wasn’t hard to enjoy because I was still able to let myself get wrapped up in the emotion of longing for love, something with which I can clearly identify.
Two things bugged me though. 1- It should have taken place many years ago, because it’s way too easy to get information about people now. Any sane person would have googled him the second she learned his name, and if she couldn't do that she could have at least opened the phone book. Perhaps that’s my suspicious side rearing its ugly head but come on, it’s not every day you meet someone who claims to be physically living in the past and the present at the same time.
2- Not surprisingly I always relate to independent female characters who for whatever reason have built up walls and can’t seem to love or be loved by anyone. I need to see (or write) a movie about a woman whose walls are much harder to break down. Course it would probably end up being a 10 hour movie showing one woman’s inner dialogue about her issues with love. Dullsville. But you see my point? I know. It makes no sense because most people don’t go to a romantic drama to be depressed about how the main character can’t find love. “'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” or so says Tennyson. Even when it’s vicarious love I suppose.
The connection between loving someone and missing them is one I have yet to reconcile. I think about the people in my life and what it means to me to have them in it. I cherish the family and friends that I have, and know I’d be crushed without them. However, sometimes I think if I don’t miss someone, presently, maybe it means I don’t love them. Objectively speaking that sounds extremely childish because I know missing someone is not purely indicative of loving them. And yet, it is still unsettling for me to think that if someone I think I love were to be completely absent from my life and I didn’t miss them, maybe I didn’t love them. I seem to have cut loose a lot of friends this way.
Then I think maybe I’ve just perfected the craft of building walls and can do it so swiftly they are up before I have the chance to feel hurt, or miss someone. Or maybe I still hold everyone at a distance even though I think I’m letting them in. Of course, then there’s always the strong possibility that I’m being naive in thinking these defenses will protect me when someone hurts me. Because I still have friends, I still have family and it’s inevitable that people get hurt, as well as hurt other people. I’m no saint.
I guess I just wish I wasn’t so sensitive. I’m like a raw nerve ending inside a glass cylinder. Most people only get to the outside layer and their comings and goings don’t bother me. I know I’m probably fooling myself in thinking that the few who get inside can be divided into further tiers, because once you’re in you have all the potential in the world to strike that nerve. I’ve been told that if someone does strike it, they get thrown over the wall and it’s twice as hard to get back in. For sobbing out loud I’m my own high-tech security system. What’s so great about me that I need so much protecting for gadsake?
It’s time to punk up miss big black boot wearing tough girl. Thicken that skin and live up to the image you so proudly present. Let them in and let them go. Let’s face it, it’s the only way you'll ever get laid. You cannot die a virgin. It’s just too gaddam precious.
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