“you are killing me, softly,” i wrote, but blogged, instead of said… silence is golden, and black, patterned in bruise-purple elephants, unspoken, large and small (issues) alike, bearing down heavy, stretching the fabric of our lives in unimaginable and irretrievable fashions…
relationships take work. and time. and decisions. split second and yearlong and ever-after kinds…the ones you see coming, but close your eyes to anyway… some hold plans dear, while others hold autonomy even dearer. better add that question to the pre-coital surveys–what do you value more: partnership or autonomy? money or sex? food or love? friends or family? collaboration or equal exchanges? something for nothing or everything for something? early mornings or late nights? sleeping in or rising early? passion or aggression? talking or drinking? smoking or thinking? leaving or staying? pushing or pulling? blaming or swallowing? taking or giving? seeing or watching? hearing or listening? knowing or believing? wanting or getting?
i wrote the stuff above weeks or months ago, stored it in a draft, and thought to myself this morning: love is not enough. passion is not enough. nor suicide, nor saying i love you, nor sleeping in, or being attracted. not liking his mother, not living together or living apart or thinking alike or loving the same things or cumming together. nothing is enough to keep things together. most things mean nothing without context. but everything means something after sex. what is there left to do but talk in circles and walk single-file forward, to the right, for the rest of your natural life, preternatural thoughts, and unnatural ways?
(image by jakob dwight)
Nonfiction Woman 