Love is strange. It comes out of nowhere, and there's no logic to it. It's not methodical. It's not scientific. It's pure emotion and passion. And emotion and passion can be dangerous because they fuel love . . . and hate.
I'm now a reluctant connoisseur of both—an expert through immersion. I know them intimately.
When I fell in love with Miranda, it was swift and blind. She was the person I'd elevated to mythical status in my head, in my dreams.
Here's the thing about dreams; they're smoke. They're spun as thoughts until they become something we think we want. Something we think we need.
That was Miranda. She was smoke.
I thought I wanted her. I thought I needed her.
Over time reality crept in and slowly dissected and disemboweled my dreams like a predator, leaving behind a rotting carcass.
Reality can be a fierce bitch. So can Miranda.
And I can be a fool . . . who believes in dreams. And people. And love.
