He said call him when my mother was dead. Or was it when she dies?
I know, I know, it’s weird. Even weirder is that I found myself wishing that she’d pass on so I could make it to the other side.
I’ve always said she was my only weakness, and I guess that was just me daring the system to exploit me, my relationship with my mother.
Then again, that would be to assume that my father’s death was just an accident.
No, in the last few sunny month’s my otherwise charmed life seemed to take on a less than charming reality. Truth.
But my truth isn’t like yours. Mine is programmed inside me as if it reverberates from each and every cell within my being.
The thing is, I’m stubborn, even if it is my best quality.
And I know that the only other woman on the planet more frustrating than my mother is me.
How would I begin to tell you about the past twenty-four hours even? You wouldn’t begin to be able to imagine what kind of series of events must conspire to make my life so coincidentally come to be the dream that I’m stuck in… I wouldn’t expect you to. If I weren’t living it, I don’t think I would either.
You know the funny part? Either way, whether this is my demise or my salvation, I still need the same things. Relief. Love. Intimacy, and sex. I can’t imagine how pent up with frustration nuns must be. I really must make a note and ask my aunt. How can she possibly stand it?
Today I was reading about the Illuminati. The reality is that without divine intervention, there is some point where all lose faith. But there’s a provision for that. In the last days, it says, that there will be a celestial phenomenon, so every man may know that it is he who is most high upon all the earth, and rules over us. There will be no question.
When I remember that I relax for a moment.
Then I’m back to the beginning again…
I need a husband.
Yeah, I bet you didn’t see that one coming, did you?
Then comes the next problem.
If this isn’t the paradise—well, even if it’s not the paradise, I’m still not settling. There’s so much more to live than worrying and wondering and living in fear.
I know this script. I know it well. I reveled in it today. Marveled, horrified. Don’t you wish you could see in my mind, the images I play as my eyes dart from here to there in a moment you least expected?
Why do I even have to write from anyone else but me? The reality is, I don’t want to share my pain. I don’t want to profit from everything that has worked to destroy me each and every day, day in, day out.
But that’s just how it goes doesn’t it? A prostitute of words in exchange for my own pleasurable escape. What else is there to do while we sit and wait?
I may be so lonely, but also fear losing my life for not having made a choice.
But how can you ask me to choose from the men of the land when I only see their every flaw?
There was only one man I didn’t find fault with. It felt right coming together with him.
Then he sent me away.
All that’s happened, all that’s transpired, and I still can’t get him off my mind.
Sing to me, read to me, lay with me, play with me.
There is something in me that seems to be stuck between the belief in getting everything that I want, and having to compromise—reality—and that I don’t have to choose or specify what I want to have it given to me, a present.
In reality, I want a fighting chance. I want to be able to make it whether this is reality, a dream, or the end. I just want to know that I’m doing everything I can to secure my future. I have fought long and hard and I don’t intend to go down now.
When the world ends, we’ll be making love. Burning the night away.
But I can tell the world is ending, and I sit burning the night away alone.
I get the feeling I have to finish this book before I will get what I really seek.
No. Not an ending—answers.