Certainly, I am a fool. Probably, I will regret the choices formed on a full moon’s influence. And out of those that were clearly laid out, I opted to have them selected for me. Passively, then lived aggressively. But all this personal insight, as I have pointed out before, does nothing to soothe an agitated state. It isn’t wholly honest, and I haven’t the patience for truth, these days.
I have not loved freely, and rarely exclusive. I believe I am contradicting things I have claimed in the past. Then, let us say it is one of the few beliefs I have left. At this, I shrug, or I laugh, or I cry with such intensity that I wake Mozart as a baby.
I understand the wrong things, the unimportant things. I never listen attentively. I never clarify, and my roots get twisted, allowing the plant to die.
The moon is decaying, and the wind is pushing rocks into the center of the earth. If this could provide a distraction, I wouldn’t have to listen to my labored breathing, growing louder in its desperation.
I detest Matthew for no reason at all. He is a demon, and I will do him not the favor of smoking out his evil with prayer and sage.
This love is not real. It is a complex idealization. And yet, I would take him into me, at his quietest request.
As I write this, I think of The Corpse. Perhaps, it is because lovers too bad to hope for any good are hard to forget. No, it is because I am fickle, hard to please, fascinated by plural love.