Her theories on love reminded me a little of toy cars—to be specific, the radio controlled ones that I so loved when I was a kid. They’re small, accurate models of the real thing. They can be controlled without strings and from afar. They bring you happiness until the day you decide to grow up.
(Moving on is what we do, of sunshine radios and plastic trees. But all the metaphorical anomalies that our lives come across are all driven by our wishes for something indefinable. There’s a sort of lust that exists in all of us that steers us to decipher this mystery that we have so come to think we need, we want. The challenge is part of the motivation.)
I did sometimes take them apart. I would rewire them, repaint them. I would try to make them unrecognizable, as if it were a new make or model. Maybe then they would have come closer to what I had hoped for, what I had thought I had wanted. But that never worked: Often, the batteries ran out, the antenna popped off or I simply came to conclude they weren’t good enough.
The stages come and go, and we hope and emulate our everyday lives to the fiction that we perceive on the daily stage. Film, television and literature all have a hand in the cookie jar that dictates our expectations. But however sullied they may be, however incredible, our fictions continue to grow.
Theories are collapsable structures that existed between us. Our perception of time and how it wrapped around love was indicative of an end. In all this, there are two lessons embedded: First, time destroys everything. Second, the nature of a pre-emptive strike is for those who cannot face truth. The combination of these leads one into bleak chamber tactics, a place where the day is a little darker and the nights a little colder. The sound, a little quieter.
I’m not sure if they still make those radio controlled cars, but I think I’d like one again.