Sunday night the image of my Grandmother during her last few hours popped into my head, and I instantly burst into tears. I don't know why that thought came into my head, but it did. Those last moments were torture when I had to live through them, but I bucked up and didn't cry. Partially because I had been crying all that night and partially because I felt I had to be strong at that moment. The doctors told me that there was little chance that she would live more than a few hours. No more than 2 days, that's for sure. Those moments I had to make the funeral arrangements even while she was still "alive." I put that in quotes because to me she was already gone. When I made the arrangements I felt that she was already unconscious. She wasn't responding to us, and she was being kept "alive" by a machine. A machine that would do its job until it was turned off. Those memories hurt so much that I've kept them buried. However, like I said, Sunday that memory came into my head and I relived it with all the sorrow I had back then.
Dead gets easier with time. The saying that time heals all wounds is partially right. Time definitely helps in coping with the hurt, but it never really takes it away. What hurts the most is the solitude, and the loss of her friendship. I miss talking to her, hearing her stories, and getting an earful of her advice. I miss her.
On a completely different matter, I tried my hand at online dating. I went on a site, and decided to take them up on their trial offer. I sent a couple of messages and got the overwhelming response of NO tag backs. So there you have it, shot down AGAIN. You'd think I'd get used to this sort of thing by now. What with getting shot down being a pretty damn regular occurrence in my life. Well let me tell you it still hurts a little bit when someone rejects me.
Here's the deal, I'm a good guy but I have no luck in love. Zero luck in it. Do you remember the movie "Amadeus?" F. Murray Abraham played the part of Salieri, who was granted the gift of recognizing the beauty in Mozart's music, but not the ability to replicate it in his own work. I feel that I am like Salieri, able to recognize the wonder in the passion of love, but never able to have it in my own life. I fear becoming much like the character did, bitter. Bitter at the ability to recognize such beauty, but never able to hold it near, never able to possess it. Dulcinea.