à un moment.
When I was younger, I used to become enchanted solely with those I chose to see as perfect. I’d gaze through a careful filter at their beauty and strength and intelligence, and value, with breathless reverence, this unfair imagined ideal. It never worked, and it never last.
Today, I’m more inclined to melt as a result of a slipped mask, or a fatal flaw, or the revelation of some tragically human foible. I fall for people more easily now, and my heart is broken less.
I’m not sure what tomorrow will bring, or when I’ll awaken to the danger of this second form of enamored adoration. Is there anything better about falling for the hopelessly damaged than there is for the hopelessly idealized? Is there a path between, or some transcendent embrace of both? I would love to live long enough to find out.