Realism.

I was sharing a bottle of wine with a close friend a few nights ago and after sharing his philosophies on life I turned to him, slight buzz in the brain, and told him I was jealous of his thinking.

He simply smiled at me and said, "Realism.  It's the only way to get through this life of ours."  I remember thinking, that is just not something you hear very often.  You always hear glass half full or glass half empty.  Optimism or pessimism, but rarely do you hear of realism.

Why is it so hard for us to just be real?  Why do we either get clouded by the bad or awed by the good?  Is it so hard to face the truth that we always have to put a spin on it?  Should we be jealous of those who see "it" how "it" is?  Or should we pity them?

When we were kids imagination was a good thing; something we were awarded for, and encouraged to do.  As we get older, I feel we are still encouraging one another to not stay grounded but to let our imaginations take us away and make the harsh realities a little bit easier.  The problem we run into as adults, is eventually- whether we want it to or not- reality will force its way back in.

Back to The Prince and I.  That first night, after all those years.  Man, that first night was just as I had dreamed it.  We talked and we drank.  We flirted and accidentally touched, and every touch lingered.  He made me feel beautiful and when the last beer had been drunk, and we clumsily stood it seemed so natural to lean into him and press my lips on his.  And that kiss, it was like being pushed back into that moment- when our first kiss had broken all our rules.

We fell on the bed, and skin on skin felt like hot electricity.  I melted into him and it felt so right.  And when we finished I went to brush my teeth and as soon as I was back in the room he was kissing me again.  On and on it went.  That first perfect night.

Then the morning came.  Everything is always different in the morning.  I woke up alone, grabbing at the cold spot where I had last seen him.  The feeling you get waking up alone in a strange house, it makes your stomach knot up instantly.  You start questioning everything, and everything seems colder, and harsher then it did before.

He wouldn't look at me, wouldn't talk to me.  The moment I stepped out of that room I felt out of place, the one object that didn't quite belong.  I stayed longer then I should have.  Other then the fact that I had driven 4 hours to see him, I don't know what held me there.  I knew his interest had faded.  That the man next to me now was no where near the man I had met and fallen for all those years ago.

I was holding onto a dream.  Grasping at what was left.  But, reality caught up.  On the third day of my visit we were sitting in a Mexican restaurant at the bar and I was coaxing him to tell me some war stories.  Our conversations were so fake, so one dimensional at that point, I needed something real.  He could not give it to me, instead he told me stories of other girls and watched the TV while he spoke instead of looking at me.

Realism.  It's hard.  When I left he promised to call if he got his leave extended, I knew he wouldn't.  When he returned home the following week he started calling me again, texting me.  His voicemails and texts were sweet and flirty, as if we had never grown bored of each other, as if the imaginary world hadn't just been shattered.

He still texts and I still haven't answered.  My what ifs are gone now, because now I know.  I wonder if it would have been better to stay in that world of pretend or if knowing the truth somehow helped things.

All I know is- The Prince of my what ifs was comforting, and now he's gone.  Realism.  I hope it's not the only way to live this life of ours.  I hope to continuing seeing the good along with the bad, even if sometimes- it's just imaginary.