There are no pianos in death. The sound of music does not exist, but the memory of it does. My Catholic leads me to believe such ridiculous things. Thoughts that aren’t quite jokes, but make me laugh, nonetheless. If I was normal, my reach would be high, far, wide. It isn’t healthy to want to be so different, but it is all I want. My mind presents me with images of how things could be, if only eccentricities would die, and it is a beautiful alternate reality.
Paul had a low sex drive, but a high desire for me to be like everyone else. And there it is. Those that care for me, would care for me more if I wasn’t a predicament, or this complicated paradox they want desperately to adjust, like bad reception on the radio.
I have been cruel to men, so that they are too stunned to attack.
What is a romantic relationship, and why is it worth having? A world of two, excluding all that once mattered? Waking moments are only important if the other is near? Shared thoughts and completed sentences? None of this appeals to me. Losing oneself to gain nothing. A wedding ring, children, a mortgaged home, debt. Changing directions one final time. The high price of divorce. Murder of genuine purpose. Exchanging secrets later used for blackmail. A man that could be a part of me, when I am least in need of another part.
I have taken away nothing from the men I have dated. Jason, for example, had a rope. We laughed, played, argued, embraced. I cannot remember this clearly, but the rope hanging from a tree in his backyard is still so fresh in my mind. The beautiful doesn’t stick quite like the banal.