The lion, the witch.

Vague recollections of happiness tumble freely around, offering up their viscera whenever the moment presents an opportunity. These memories, whether bred from the fibers of truth or merely fiction fueled by pure will can't help but to emerge when any sort of new romantic endeavor is considered. To emerge, I mean seep out slowly against any efforts to retain them because I know the slippery business of comparative analysis. This weighted measuring of aptitudes and ineptitudes, the constant tallied results lap at the edge of consciousness and manifest in dreams too bizarre for description.

I live entirely too much inside my head, forgoing reality because my version is either simply preferable or maybe more convenient. So, instead of remembering life with the billionaire as it was, I remember it as how I wanted it to be. This is the sort of habit that allows me to freely forgive any trespass, the same which leaves me ignoring faults and embracing the potential for good in others if only because doing so is more agreeable to the story in my head.

But, I fall victim to my own muddied memories and contrived story lines. I'm quick to assume ulterior motives of others, constantly in search of the subtext, an activity that becomes more pressingly obvious and more difficult to suppress when reality no longer remotely resembles the plot lines dreamt up late at night. Hanging on to moments because I need for there to me something more. A lifetime dedication to indulgent fiction chronicling the inner workings of a character who exists only between book covers might be blamed, but not everyone's life may have the privilege of an omniscient narrator, thickly spooning analysis upon errant gestures and long pauses.