She always found the Lost Generation, well, Lost. Prevalent attitudes were intentional, assertive and intellectual, but interrupted, distracted, lower-cased. Was she to be one of those women who Fitzgerald wrote had a face like a relief map of petulant and bewildered unhappiness? Was she to be something like that Daisy Buchanan who aimlessly looked for something to do that afternoon and then discovering herself absently continuing for thirty years? Was this the new freedom?
A rose is a rose is a rose. And she was a Rose.
And she had love. But somehow, those times were jealous. She was not a Kismine. She wanted to feel; to belong. To love and to be loved. Yet that intensely impermanent divine drunkenness that she often experienced instead was still more intoxicating than the alternative. Somehow, he was there and then he wasn’t. It felt Sisyphean, the moment only altered by the reason for the tears, whether joy or sadness.
She would love and be loved. She would fear neither detachment nor loss. She would not fear tears.
She feared only the dark night of the soul.