Sandy
Sandra Bullock must be devastated. How weird is it to be a “celebrity”. We don’t’ know them and yet we know their personal travails. Meanwhile the throngs of displaced and desperate Haitans or victims of Katrina remain faceless and nameless. Their personal stories lost in the floods and in between the layers of cracked earth. Yet, I know and you know dozens of women whose husbands’ betrayals shoved their identity into the abyss – no longer talented actresses, political powerhouses, mothers, daughters or even wives. They become the scorned woman, a pathetic victim looking like a foolish fawn caught in the headlights’ glare where trust is exploding into a thousand sparks flying into the air and returning to earth as disintegrating black embers.
Trust becomes ashes. How do you rebuild something, a life, a marriage, a promise, out of ashes? They fall apart as your hands reach down to keep them from being scattered in the wind and all you are left with are hands blackened and a bruised soul. What is it like? That feeling that you were not even cared enough about to suppress some basic human urge by someone who you thought was your true love, soul mate, the one “who had your back” as Sandra said in her interview with Barbara Walters. If the hormone high from lusty sex overrides the emotional high from knowing the nest you built for your family is so strong even violent winds of sexual desire cannot shake it from the branches then I guess your soul is left lying on street waiting to get washed away with all the other refuse into the sewers…
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