Where East meets Dead End

Sometimes I wonder what it might look like if a cartographer were to map out the love lives of Montrealers in a format something similar to Google Earth.

If we could identify ourselves, our little stick-people selves, running after someone who doesn’t love us, running from someone who does.

I can picture the man tasked with the job, a grey bearded gentleman with a potbelly and a tweed jacket with elbow patches, looking down on us, laughing with disdain. Because truly, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

And yet, how much more logical would it be if there were some overbearing, governing force, who could reach in with capable, steady hands, and turn a stick-person in another direction, face him forward, away from the pain and heartache he’s veering towards, dead on. Set him on a path paved with happiness, blissful, ignorant contentment, away from the desperation and heartache he convinced himself made sense at the time.

I’ll bet the map would inevitably take on a distinctly circular pattern. And we could look down on it and point sympathetic fingers as we watched Suzy chase after John, and accusing ones as we glared at John running after Jen.

And then tuck all ten digits safely into our pockets as we start off on our very own sprint towards the woman or man who will in turn duck and dodge us, only to set off on his or her own, destructive path.