The movie that makes me cry.

Now, not sure how deep one should be in a 'blog', but feeling like sharing, so I will.

The Bridges of Madison County... as movies go it is fair to call it a chick flick, but to me it is hauntingly sad. Her kitchen's emptiness and the dusty road that leads to it are symbolic of a life lived far from home. The road is me at the mercy of who may travel it into my life. The kitchen is my heart. Sometimes filled with children, but like wallpaper and pretty curtains fade, the window can steal your eyes away in an instant, your gaze wandering over lanscapes you've studied for many years, unchanging.

A friend that doesn't know you yet may come down that road, and you search their stories so that you can feel like you were with them. You can picture the moonlight and all the glorious sunrises, but never feel the wind. Never hear the sounds. Never know how it felt.

In solitude there is comfort that you don't have to explain how or why you can be so sad, but yet so happy in your life. The multitude of beatiful blessings that can only be counted in as many moments as there are in a day, remain unmatched by the number of times your heart aches just a little more.

Places that have never been seen by anyone but you are the memories tied to places that only someone with the same memories could understand. These heartstrings suffer in a death that is unendingly mourned.

When it is time for her lover to leave she cries and the anger comes out. That anger is ever present in all things that try to tempt me, tease me into letting it rise. The only emotional dalliance that justifies itself to me is the feeling of that long dusty road stretched out in mile after mile of impossible desperation. Impossible for anyone to find me, impossible for me to tell them how.