So history reiterates itself. Everything different, and likewise all the same. Another heartache, another year. I've read again all I've written here, and it could stand in for the present just as well. The same messages, hopes, tremblings, fears. The same self-told wisdom and warnings. You'd think I would learn.
Different, but the same, but different. When will I stop being surprised by the waywardness of my heart? I rein her in--tell her calmly it's for our own good. But she is an idealist, despite all the cynicism and practicality I can muster, and without warning she gallops off to seek and nestle against the true self of another, all evidence that might dissuade her notwithstanding.
She is in love again, and it looks as hopeless as it always has before. Does she only love those who cannot love her in return?
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