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The One

Of all the myths of western society, the love myth concerning the ideal "one" person that somebody absolutely has to meet in order to live a happy life, is the most cruel.

There is no one person. We are all individuals in a sense, but we are all very much a like. The question of love has more to do with will, arguably sub-conscious will, than to do with some perfect match. Most people want to love someone; some want to be loved. Either way, you cannot love someone or be loved by someone without deciding to love them or vice versa.

What happens with the one is that people tend to get bored and idealistic rather quickly. If you add to the mix the clusterfuck of standards of beauty that the media blitzgreigs society with and you are very likely to find yourself searching for something that cannot exist. Instead of coming upon this realization, most people conclude that they are not worthy of love.

That's not to say an individual cannot mantain standards. But standards must be vague enough to apply to a variety of individuals, instead of crafting an imaginary prince out through the silent cacophonies of the harpies who run magazines.

So what you have is people dredging through the mud of absolute misery. You have people who ignore the ephemeral nature of poetic love, expecting some sacchrine sweet version of a sticky romance novel instead of indulging in its purity.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

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'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

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Hope had left the gun on the table.

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