Now, HOW it happens?
Different story.
Can't be planned. Can't be recreated. Can't be decided on.
It's something between you and the fates and traffic. It's a whole omelet of things, really. And it's when you're going about your life, packing bags and trying to get a cup of coffee, and saying goodbye to a pet and stubbing your toe.
This I know. I can't tell you what it is. I know that we fight. I know that I cry about it a lot. That we argue over where our lives are going. Whether it's love or just a fling or a tortuous love affair or just a date for an afternoon. We argue, this I know. And I have threatened to leave. Stomped my feet, yelled profanity, and also whispered sweet nothings...
But, yesterday. No, that's a lie. Last night-- I fell back in love with Los Angeles.
Between the sun and the smog, the bohemian and chic, the fake and the faker, the palm trees and the orange groves that turned to Disneyland, the shiny cars and faded flip flops, the dreams and the non-reality--
I realized I was home. Sometimes it takes you six years to realize it's love.
And as Harris K. Telemacher says:
There's someone out there for everyone-- even if you need a pickaxe, a compass, and night goggles to find them. And romance does exist deep in the heart of LA.
