I realize that I am often alone, when I am without the man I love. It is not that I cannot have friends. I am told, in fact, that I am quite charming. It is my tolerance that betrays me.
My mother swarms around me, an angry gnat, persistent. It will not leave me alone. When I am angry at her, I often feel remorse and approach her to lay a hand on her head, as if she were a child. She so desperately seeks my attention, any attention. Attention that I generally deny her, only half-listening. And she, naturally, does the same to me. I wonder, was it I who conditioned her to be this way or she who conditioned me.
Anais Nin writes..."Henry made a monster of June because he has a monster-creating mind. He is a madman.: I check the time today obsessively, as if I cannot wait for the day to be over, to be forgotten. Perhaps I am monster-creating within myself? Within others? Within situations, permutations, seeking complications? Destroying my image to others, destroying others. Why is it that every female I have loved has left me? Is it I who loves too fiercely or, perhaps, I don't know how to love at all? Mercilessly, I want to hurt them. Slap them, bite them, push them as if we were schoolchildren.
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