Little writings I find on my computer make me happy. I wrote the first paragraph YEARS ago, probably like, 2011/2012, when I was a cynical, bitter, loveless old lady. I finished it in 2013/2014.
“I need not to feel; to be devoid of feelings that only feel
good temporarily and hurt in the end. To care, to love, to experience
passion—they are fleeting, like the sun: sure to rise yet sure to set. To be
stuck in the throes of love is to wage war upon your own self. No, I need not
to feel—feelings are fleeting. I need no perestroika, no knight, no setting and
rising sun of emotional discord. I need solitude, and that alone. I will not
share with someone his cloudy and marked past and I will not weep about the
wrongs done to me. I do not want to be someone’s other option, even if I am
their best, even if I have shown them what true love is. I do not have that to
give. I am empty; I need not to feel.”
She cleared her throat as if to put
a period on her statement, to sign it. Her eyes were watery but gave nothing
else away—crystal cold, deep yet dammed. Her bottom lip trembled, her own body
wishing to betray her words.
She touched her lip to steady the
trembling and turned to look out the window. A small smile lit her lips, if
only for a moment. Her conscience said, “But he’s out there somewhere, waiting
for you. Waiting to change every insidious thought you have about love. You
will be a hypocrite. And you will feel; with all of your soul, the love and
passion you here now discolor.”
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