This all will sound rather cryptic to those not familiar with the particulars, but I divulge it anyway to give you some hint of the occupations of my heart these last few months. Forgive me.
As a writer, I am wont to take risks I know to be unwise. How ever can I write about life if I have not first lived? I took a gamble that I could be best friends with a man whom I deeply respected without losing my heart in the bargain, and I was wrong. So wrong. I loved, and I lost the bet. What is more, I nearly squandered the friendship in the process.
Some things in life will never match our ideal, but it is not to say that life can not be good. I'm trying to come to terms with that. Relinquishing my tattered hopes, I wonder: is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved, as Tennyson claimed? Certainly, I could have spared myself the agony, but I'd be bereft the experience. So while I have realized all along that my behavior has not been always wise or prudent, and I am sorry for any pain or confusion my actions have caused my friends, I have few lasting regrets. The heart is a resilient organ, and given time, mine will mend. The process has already begun, I know, because last night, I was weeping convulsively, and tonight, I'm able to reflect on all more rationally and make some meaning of what first seemed senseless madness.