November 2, 2012 § Leave a comment
The subtlety of need is such that I can hardly be bothered to discern it. I despise compromise. Integrity is all there is. It’s a treasure buried under a mountain of conformity, an accretion of a lifetime of compromise. Being who I’m not has not gotten me any closer to what I need. I don’t care what the world wants of me. It doesn’t know me or care about me. That is true, and that’s all. Only the individual can care, and it can only care about itself and other individuals. It’s the only way for the world to be understood, the only way to unearth the treasure, expose the light of our selves. To find it is to share it; to share it is to satisfy our need. To understand, to love.
July 31, 2012 § Leave a comment
Thinking about Herself makes me miserable, but I’m choosing to be miserable because I’m choosing to think about her. How can I help it when I just saw her after nearly ten months and she was gorgeous? and I hadn’t yet convinced myself that I wasn’t looking for her everywhere I went? when the welts on my back are so dense they can no longer feel the self-administered cat-o-nine-tails raining down upon them? I’m still asking her forgiveness. I want to believe that I deserve it and that it’s necesary, but I can only believe that she couldn’t feel the same way. To which of us am I giving the lesser credit? She was as impossible to look at as to tear my gaze away from. We had opportunity to talk. Who was the bigger failure to not approach the other? The person who most wanted to. It had been more than a year since she’d seen me. I’ve just been trying to be a good boy: No contact, no correspondence, no gifts or apologies–leaving her alone, letting her know I’m not a stalker, much less the “psycho” someone said she’d called me. To what end? To whose satisfaction? If she already has satisfaction, then what need could she have to help me get mine? She has nothing to apologize for, yet I want her to regret not loving me. Then what?
March 13, 2012 § Leave a comment
Speculation is a vanity of the imagination. There are many questions to ask, but do they need answered? What will be satisfied? Who’s truth will be told? If I were to run into Herself tomorrow I couldn’t ask one of those questions of her. Some things don’t matter if they only matter to you. Then you let go of them. Or you eventually only ask them rhetorically–and not snidely, either. They will always matter, really. I will answer them myself, but not with speculation. I only know my side. My truth will be incomplete. Accepting the impossibility of her corroboration and trusting my own understanding of it will be my letting go. I have to trust even what I’m not sure of–become sure of it–because it’s as sure as I will ever be. How true can that be? Can I ever believe it’s true enough? Can I ever stop wanting the answers?