curtains
but why couldn't I just have said, "Oh, okay. Your loss, really, I mean that." Why couldn't I just have gone back to my hotel room, looked myself in the mirror, and said, "Fine, I am happy and complete without her. And who needs that kind of aggravation anyway?" I mean really. But I never seem able do that, to react calmly, to react self-confidently, to know that someone who doesn't want to love me, make love to me, or live with me, who doesn't prefer me above her other choices, is not at all right for me anyway.
What could be more obvious? Instead, I well up with this sense of wronged abandonment, I become afraid. I feel the injury to my pride, my hopes. I feel the sting of rejection. Somewhere inside I desperately long for the presence of a hallowed other, someone with whom to share, someone to love, a weak, pathetic, crippling emotion. And instead of going on the next day to rebirth, to recreate myself into a newer, better reality without the feminine torturer I had let into my life, I awake with a hang-over, staring at the curtains, resenting myself for reacting self-destructively when my feelings were hurt, trampled on, eviscerated and spread out in the road to be driven over by every muddy truck wheel destiny could muster.
from "No Drag," by James K. Williams, book I, "The Bettrayal," a work in progress
curtains
but why couldn't I just have said, "Oh, okay. Your loss, really, I mean that." Why couldn't I just have gone back to my hotel room, looked myself in the mirror, and said, "Fine, I am happy and complete without her. And who needs that kind of aggravation anyway?" I mean really. But I never seem able do that, to react calmly, to react self-confidently, to know that someone who doesn't want to love me, make love to me, or live with me, who doesn't prefer me above her other choices, is not at all right for me anyway.
What could be more obvious? Instead, I well up with this sense of wronged abandonment, I become afraid. I feel the injury to my pride, my hopes. I feel the sting of rejection. Somewhere inside I desperately long for the presence of a hallowed other, someone with whom to share, someone to love, a weak, pathetic, crippling emotion. And instead of going on the next day to rebirth, to recreate myself into a newer, better reality without the feminine torturer I had let into my life, I awake with a hang-over, staring at the curtains, resenting myself for reacting self-destructively when my feelings were hurt, trampled on, eviscerated and spread out in the road to be driven over by every muddy truck wheel destiny could muster.
from "No Drag," by James K. Williams, book I, "The Bettrayal," a work in progress