I watched Walk The Line just the other day (not for the first time) and I fell in love. Again. I was actually in love with the real Johnny Cash when he was super old. I didn’t care that he was old (and that I was about 8), I still loved him. Then, my daddy told me he had died two years later, and I cried myself to sleep three nights in a row. I honestly thought I was going to be his wife someday.
I don’t really know if there’s a point to this story. That’s basically what I do. I tell a story because I think of something and then that’s really all it is. A story. I wish I was better at this. I just can’t ever bring something home. (Maybe it’s because I was taught how to make cliff-ending stories when I was little).
Maybe this is it: True love hurts. It sucks. And it’s always with the famous, dead ones. Isn’t it? No, maybe it’s just me.