There is something so appealing to a story of a man and a woman,

isn’t it?

But the story can never be simple; toss in domineering mother element,

an old friendship, a new romance. Give our protagonist flaws.

Make them suffer. Beauty is in suffering, isn’t it?

Then when the end comes and it’s happy, it’s all the sweeter, isn’t it?

But isn’t that just goddamn wrong.

There is no light at the end of the rainbow, no right answer.

Say the story slightly misses the mark; the heroine walks off

without a lover’s spine supporting her

(though we all love a steamy scene or two with the opposite lead)

and goes into the sunset, loveless, but lovely in her pain and power,

goddess-like, and seizes her own, and gets that ring for herself,

to be herself, to connect with a bigger world,

wouldn’t that just be something, rather than the many other angel stories

where the heroine never learned to walk alone at all.