When He Really Loved Me

Among the things that are most dispiriting are those moments when you realize that your dream, however much you might have expected it to be impossible, really is coming to an end, and that the other dreams you have were so mixed with it, you might as well toss the lot. You might have intellectually doubted those dreams, worried and fretted indefinitely for months or years, told yourself to expect nothing, but a part of you always believed they were possible. That those dreams could happen. Believing transcends even the most rationale mind, once in a while.

When reality, as it is wont to do, finally puts that (or those) dream(s) to death, no one is ever really prepared for it, however much they might want to have been.

For the past several days, I have been thinking of Anne Boleyn in Anne of the Thousand Days when she says, "The days we bedded. Married. Were Happy. Bore Elizabeth. Hated. Lusted. Bore a dead child... which condemned me... to death. In all one thousand days. Just a thousand. strange. And of those thousand, one when we were both in love, only one, when our loves met and overlapped and were both mine and his. And when I no longer hated him, he began to hate me. Except for that one day."

Of course the details were different, the number of days, the turns of events, but that sentiment, that there were only a handful of days where two people were truly in tune and endless days before and after where paths and goals diverged (seen clearly only in hindsight), remains. 

Of course, she wasn't facing divorce but was off to get beheaded.

Some people have all the luck.