He is the epitome of what a realistic Mr Darcy would be. Apparently I am not his Lizzy.
I suppose that he is merely another detour on the road to true love.
Don't get me wrong though. He is still perfect. It's just that....
he thinks that she is perfect.
I cannot bring myself to call him by the name of Wickham. He has done nothing to deserve such a horrid title. Only the most vile of the male population are worthy of such a demeaning reference.
Perhaps I will call him my Mr. Bingley.
He thinks that his Jane is perfect.
So if I am Lizzy, he is Bingley, and she is Jane, then who is Darcy? Perhaps I just haven't met him yet. I really should take the advice of my friends and just forget about things for awhile. Stop trying.
And so I will go out with my siblings and party on Friday and Saturday with them. I will work hard in my classes and forget about men.
I'm tired of them anyways. They are so frustrating and time consuming.
My heart keeps breaking on me. It's a continual barrage of aches and pains. Tears and frustrations. Loneliness.
So why do I keep doing it?
Why keep giving my heart?
Because of the great CS Lewis.
Because he was right.
To love is to be vulnerable.
And what are we called to do on this earth?
Love