As part of a mini-project at work this morning, I was ordered to scour the pages of the Toronto Star in search for mentions of a certain article. In my hunt for said mentions, I came across a title and an attached blurb that I couldn't resist: "Mystery of the Queensway love signs solved."
Curiousity getting the best of me, I read the column, and then searched backwards for the initial article from Sunday. My heart strings were tugged.
A man in love, without a means of communication, posted signs for the object of his affection all along the route she walked in the mornings. They were quotes of love from writers across the times that he chose because he thought they were specific to the two of them.
"There is always some madness in love...but there is always reason in the madness."
"I love you not only for what you are but for what I am when I am with you."
"He is not a lover who does not love forever."
"Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other."
All that, and she's turned him down.
Needless to mention, I have a sweet spot for words. While public professions of love could really be a little much for me, if someone loved me so much that he didn't care that others knew or what they thought and tried to flag me down with scrawled notes of love across the highways, he would have 100% of my attention.
I know that when it comes to the written word, I can be a force to be reckoned with. But if he dared to venture into my territory, especially as a lite-rate as I imagine them all to be, with a plea for a second chance, how could I say no?
The ideal idea is to awaken one morning, and if I find that he is no longer next to me, I will instead find notes and notes of loving reminders of how he will be back soon enough, and how he will be missing me just as much as I will be missing him until that moment comes round again when we can be together in each other's arms.
...that's enough. I'm making myself lonely.
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