Love lives on

I was just kind of wandering around reading and came across an old girlfriend's tossed-off reference to her current beau.

And I felt that pang.

I'm generally respectful of feelings, but I sort of have to call this one stupid. It's not as if I want to ever have anything meaningful to do with this girl again. Heck, she's cold enough to try and pretend our time together didn't exist, much less have specifics. And with time letting the chemicals of early encounter lose their potency, I can clearly see the huge negatives of she and I.

So I can't call the feeling jealousy. I suppose the pang comes because I envy someone else possibly experiencing that love when I have it only in the past. Or maybe believing somewhere inside that person isn't providing safe harbor for that little bit we had together. I don't mind being left behind, but can't bear being forgotten and made inconsequential.

It's not about living in the past. It has something to do with memories and nostalgia, but not an urge to return to something gone by.

It's a totally irrational pang, but then my love tends to be irrational too. One such person told me early on she'd only break my heart. Of course, I had to go full throttle into it to provide that opportunity. She lived up to it, and I had no authority to be disappointed in her.

But although nameless, I know the pang well. And although I may find it stupid, I still respect it.

It's a pang I actually feel bounce around in any kind of encounter with someone for whom I used to have feelings. Even if the person knows nothing of the encounter, like someone else tells me something about them or I read about them or I even stumble upon their web site.

I hope it has almost all to do with being genuine the first time. See, it only happens with people I actually loved. I may have hated them in many ways, but somewhere in there I loved them too. And I've come to realize that's a dangerous place for me. Because once I love, it never stops. I retain that love for as long as I live, even if it becomes swirled with anger and disgust and shame. Those ugly colors may be in there, but there's a glowing nugget of whatever led to love in the first place.

But my love is what it is. It's never quite the same twice, but it has longevity that I suspect will match mine. I don't regret the pang, although I also don't enjoy it. I just acknowledge it. Maybe it's an unconscious reminder of what love is when I'm not directly in it, and a tap on the shoulder of how I can damage it.

The pang is the lesson that keeps on teaching.