Sunday, 28 July 2013

Letter to an unknown friend

I write:

To be honest I don't know if I would have come to see you next weekend. The thought of true connection terrifies me. Its memory lives in me, in the same way a smooth pebble washed up by the tide holds the sea. It fascinates me and I yearn, like the pebble to be washed over and cleansed. To rejoin wholeness. 

 I'm still not sure what I would do with it. 

Easier to ache longingly and have meaningful interludes with meaningless men. Someone to hold onto and in whose broad arms to seek comfort when the night feels dark and scary... Someone easy to leave. Spare me from a man who leaves more than an imprint on the pillow next to me, in my bed. 

Easier to admire the soft curve of the smooth pebble from a distance displayed in an elegant arrangement on the mantlepiece, mememto mori to the courage to find love I used to have. It's deserted me. I'm a passion wounded flower. 

He replies: 

Jul 28, 2013 – 7:37am
"Or meaningless affairs with meaningful men who stretch their personal boundaries for you and contort their expectations like elastic bands, because they like the pain? Well we want it all don't we! We want our lover to be everything at every level, don't we? Isn't it easier to have it all in one package? Is an infinitely more desirable to have someone who can give us to domestic intimacy and unadulterated gorgeous cunt and cockishness."

Maybe. Summer rain  essential to clear the mind and wash off the stain of last night's meandering across to the dark side.  We do things we say we will never do. And then we do them again. 

Fiction is stranger than life.

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