She’d wasted a whole year, a whole year’s full of cash and doubt and crass hesitation, pretending to her SO that she was important when she wasn’t. And the things she did were foolishly imaginary things; the stuff she imagined was foolishly incoherent madness; the men and women she met were wildly outside her scope – out of the scope of her way of looking at the world, which in itself was rarefiedly stratospheric in the thinness of air, that right up there she’d been breathing so idiotically.
The problem wasn’t even her past. The problem was how the behaviours of the past weighed so heavily on the soul she would be; on the being and ways of doing which her humanity not only had exhibited but might one day in the future.
And sometimes she wondered if it was her inhumanity too.
And she’d wanted so much to be loved in a way that didn’t mean she would fall ill in the first place. And she really couldn’t understand why her SO loved to touch her hand when other people were present, but not when they were alone.
Was she that fearful a person in her character and manner?
Was that the problem right there?
So that was when she finally vowed it was time to be kind even to people she knew made her feel all toxic and cruel.
For these kind of people had their own story to tell – and if they were refusing to tell their stories, maybe their stories were even heavier than hers. She didn’t know any more; she wouldn’t – shouldn’t – say.
And she guessed she simply had to stop talking to people; simply limitedly revert to the writer she’d been for so long; simply accept that when two good people are toxic together, that maybe like dispersed crude oil and water, the mix can never be undone.
If only he’d got into the good habit of letting her undo a button or two; whisper nothings in his ear; give him the pleasure he was obviously unable to receive …
If only that were possible …
If only that were real …