When I listened to Taylor's songs in elementary school, I thought that the model of love is nothing but the will of you belong with me, or the hand of the love story, or the quiet time of safe & sound.
After watching "45th Anniversary" recently, it turns out that love is about closing your eyes and making love with you, thinking of other faces in your mind, or making up a lively and beating dream for you in "Revolutionary Road" and then smashing it with your own hands.
This is the tragedy of real intimacy. I don't quite believe that any relationship can escape the tragic undertones unless it's complacent to borrow words like "stable" or "fortunate." But behind the "stability" lies the sacrifice and self-deception of one party.
The most ridiculous thing is that what you think is unparalleled is actually not special. Tragic comedy is always separated by a thin line, and wishful thinking is always vulnerable. Then, those who are defeated by the truth begin to think about the lightness and weight of life. Retaliation is pointless, sunk costs are over the horizon, and maintaining decency is a contemporary instinct.
Therefore, you return to the attitude of an ostrich to patiently maintain a "stable" relationship, and you should not block yourself in the name of it. But maybe one day you'll be forced to face a bloody reality that's more lifelike than your elaborately made-up love story.
In short, combining theory and practice, creating and maintaining an intimate relationship is a waste of life, and it is better to keep a cat.
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