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Why you will marry the wrong person Why you will marry the wrong person
by Abigail George
2019-10-20 09:14:39
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And I as a woman, as a woman I am in search for, and of my identity everywhere. In philosophy, psychology, education, literature, films, and even television. Psyche, imagination, heartbeat, every impulse, stimulus, vibration in my society, my environment, my relationships both familial, dominant, and minor in my life. And, most of all, I hope to be honest in my writings. We would have had this incredible life together.

The room in which I write are like all the rooms in a splendid mansion. The room in which I write, at the kitchen table, in the dining room, in the sitting, or, family room, every single room is my sanctuary, but the world is where I make my home, and writing, writing is my hometown. It’s my village. It’s my tribe. People either like you, or, they don’t like you. People either accept what you write, approve of the currency that you deal in, which is honesty, or, they reject the protagonist, declare the writer foe. I just want to be attractive to the opposite sex. Consider me beautiful, funny, intelligent. I’ll be yours.

mary01_400I love Nick Laird’s poems. I haven’t fallen in love in eight hours. I wish I could fly out of this room to any place that I could call home and sanctuary. Away from this cold winter’s dream, thinking about what you did not say out of the blue, and I think of the Parisian-rooftops of Rilke, my sister’s Prague, her Lulu who is going to marry an ambassador, and I feel lonely, and sad all of the time, and sometimes, just sometimes life feels like death, and death feels like life, like a tsunami, like a tidal wave amongst all of the cars, the subways, the cousins who don’t remember my birthday, and you’re not here. You’re never here. And I think I’m starting to realise that you don’t love me, you never loved me. All this time my sub-conscious was in love with difficult men, men set in their own habits, and ways, older, wiser, sexy, more confident, more vulnerable, more or less insecure in the same ways’ women were. You brought joy into my life, you were perfection, and quality, instead of quantitative analysis. I don’t need to have physical pleasure.

I think of you getting older, surrounded by your children, the children I could never give you. I would have loved you for a minor eternity, a major lifetime. Tell me what you want me to do now. You want me to forget you. I want you to, to forgive me for loving you, when another woman has given you the daughter

I never could have. I want to eat meat now, after that bowls of fire and I’m fragile now during the day, but especially the night. I can’t sleep, my love. You’re funny. You’re a funny guy, thinking about all the things you said. I ran away from you, afraid to love you, afraid of everything. I guess you married the most suitable

woman in the world. The loveliest, not the romantic gypsy, the Frida Kahlo incarnate. Not the most dangerous woman in the world, not the flame-thrower, not the girl who falls in love with rock stars, and film stars, and dead poets, and who worships suicide-related deaths by female poets. Yes, I hear voices. Yes, I see every kind of hallucination. Yes, I would bleed for you, like an animal. Feel pain for you. I do.

Like a taproot, like a touchy-feeling woman for you, but in the middle of the night I never want to fall in love ever again. I think I’ve come to the end of my road. I’ve nothing left to say about anything. Therapy is therapy. Both good, both evil. So many waves of boy crazy, so little time. So many dances, forests, careless whispers. So many damaged people. I’m broken on the inside; you can see it in my eyes. My heart is beating just for you, it is a social butterfly, the dew on your lips makes me thirsty, and hungry, and I long for the

rural countryside of Swaziland, the mountains, the greenness of the valleys where I was educated, and I miss studying your profile. If you want to know how much I miss you just read everything I’ve ever written.

I’m renovating my house. I’m putting you in order because you don’t love me anymore. You say you just want to read me. You say you just want to drive away from here, move to mainland-China, teach English there, with your beautiful girlfriend, who will also become your wife one day, and the mother of your children. You don’t love me anymore, you declare, you declare, you declare.

I took you for granted, under-appreciated you, undermined you, but I did love you in my own way, you know. I never wanted to marry, never wanted to have children. I never want to fall in love ever, ever, ever again. This is not a debate, please understand I don’t love you anymore, and this is not a discussion up for grabs. I don’t want to talk to you ever again in my life. And, yes, you hurt me, and yes, when I call you, you never return my phone calls because you say you don’t have data. You’re a boy, and I’m a woman who doesn’t believe in public displays of affection. Marry her. Go on, marry your girl. I don’t care anymore. Hurry up, and impregnate her, so I can become part of her-story and your his-story. I don’t care how many times I’ve been hurt in love, and how the men, they leave. And have babies with someone else more beautifully-suitable for survival. And I’m not the fittest of the bunch, no woman of iron am I made of, but it is a real winter’s day today, cold out, and there’s no sun, no winter sun to speak of.

I’ll forget all about you, and you’ll forget all about me. The way of the world is we hunt, we gather. The men hunt. The women gather. The men are the caretakers. The women are the nurturers. You’re still beautiful, you’re still handsome, and that will never change. And the love of my life is dead to me, and I am dead to him. So, I write and I put this narrative together for him, for you, and please don’t read between the lines and think that I still have feelings for you, you made your choice, and the love of my life made his choice. I’m a saboteur now. My arms and legs are branches. Hold my fingers, squeeze them, hold those twigs for a little while longer, I’ll put the gun down, for now. I’ll put the rope away, I’ll abandon all sin, my laws, my rules, my beautiful trauma. But, I’m still in love with you touching my face. Water is spilling down my throat but I wish it was vodka, and orange juice. I’m working so hard, not to call my mother, to feel free, to be independent, to be a woman in every cell of my physical body. I want to feel everything.

You want it too. You want to light the despair in my heart. In my lovely bones, my tired flesh. You want to light bowls of fire, and take for granted all that you know. Kiss me like I’m a film star on a movie set. I pause, straighten my blow-dried hair, hold your hand, recall happier days when we were saboteurs-in-love. I just can’t keep my hands to myself, nor these fake displays of public affection. I guess our love is finally through. Go back to your wife, and baby daughter, your perfect life. Clap your hands. Listen to the sound of that perfect applause. There are your obligations to family and your career. The victory falls on us. It feels like it did when I was little. It feels as if I’m slowly dying inside. I think that I’m only hurt by all of you, you, you mother, sister, brother. I wish I was dead. No longer amongst all the living. The air is filthy, the rags are filthy, the passage of swimmers, assault on the ears, the men, the men, (my heart is breaking just for you), the soldiers, they all seem to think, and feel, and see strange things.

The trauma must always be professional. Wash clothes, hair, clean bedroom, take my anti-depressants. I gained so much. He paid me attention. Nobody paid (my arms are open just for you), me attention like he did. He doesn’t think of me, distraught and going to pieces over him. Nobody loves me. That’s my trouble. The victory falls on us, obligations of family, yoga today was excellent, blue imprint burned on my brain, I was in my element in his halls and corridors, I appreciate how you raised me. I linger in the Southern Hemisphere, I am the dead intimate, the dead poet, the dead man, the dead woman. I’m origami, I’m habitat. The voice in the writing, I filled it with other voices. The voices of ex-boyfriends. I filled it with scenarios. I fill it with landscapes. I think of the orphan men, the cat ladies dancing with all their cats. Intuition like fear is just like an illusion, and life can carry you like purpose. If only I could see you now, missing the war, our war. You must remember my breakdown. That I don’t need advice on relationships.

I know who’re you sleeping with, and she’s beautiful in all the ways that I’m not. Maybe I’m hetero-, or Rasputin, or William Styron. I figured it all out. I was high and low and every little thing in between the truths and the white lies. Being in love makes you seem a little crazy, a little off-putting. And you can’t seem to think in a straightforward manner, you can’t seem to see the stars for the moon, the daylight for grace, the mercy seat for a life that I wanted for myself. There’s blood, sweat and tears in my writing. And I’m all about Dorothy West now, and the Harlem Renaissance. I’m opening my mind. Reading Chinua Achebe, Ben Okri, Frantz Fanon, Biko, (fascinating men, fascinating canvas). I’m falling slowly into becoming a conscientized learner to the cultural background of the African continent. The heritage of our literature. There’s the sound of the rain. Night rain outside. The garden is turning into mud bath. I’m eating a bunch of grapes. I am popping them into my mouth. Chewing them into nothingness.

In love, but nobody is in love with me. I’m anti-revolutionary in terms of the government, family, I’m oppressive-tyrant, I’m gentler, older, wiser trouble, authority-figure, passive elder of all the black sheep in the family. I’m inside my head again, all of that psychological-framework of a bipolar life, a madness life. The residue of God is on our love, the velvet-darkening-roots of grief like water in wild places. Once I knew a man called Julian, but he left me for Prague. And I dream of being not so innocent, I dream of not being tired, sad, and vulnerable, being with a man. I dream about having intimacy, being turned on by being interviewed, by my anti-depressants, by having my writer-photograph published in the newspaper. The bedroom wants to make me like to hibernate, and you’ll find me lying down in the safest position possible (which is the foetal position). Put my earphones on. Listening to Phil Collins sing about paradise. Fiona Apple, Coldplay, John Mayer on repeat. And for me, it is just another day in paradise.

Give me five minutes thief, and I will give you seed, I still have energies found in the natural world. I have the blueprint here, and proof in the form of scars, wounds, hurting. God's will be always healing, always purposefully-crafted, and as theology it stands on its own. In my hands, you're a mountain, you are handsome, you are perfect. You eat my pasta, and say it's delicious. Forget about the past, you wild-thing

said. How could I leave you on this, a wild and autumn-eyed weekend? Watch me fade away, call you cometh, and ark, you kiss the waterfall of her hair, left me far behind after paying my future tithes. When I was a child my parents watched pornographic material in front of us. The breakthrough came yesterday. The love is telling me to leave the only home I've ever known. Watch! Pay attention! Spies are coming out of the driftwood. I don't feel good anymore, and people ignore me, and my cries for help. Slow hands. Take these dysfunctional hands of mine.

There’s sadness everywhere. Sadness everywhere in women. There’s a strangeness now to the night. The birds call. The lights burn all night. Sometimes in every room of the house. I can’t sleep. I daren’t. Then the woman in the long red dress appears out of nowhere. She’s standing there, looking at me. Her whole countenance is sad. It seems she’s caught up in her own set of circumstances. This perfect, this wholesome woman. This hallucination. She says nothing. She communicates nothing. She speaks nothing. She turns her head away from me. Her gaze is questioning, but also indifferent. She hovers. Hovers the entire night. Morning I wake. The night terror is gone. There are no questions. Just the air is different. The air of winter. A brutal cold. This is a forceful aspect to reckon with. This is unnatural. But the rooms of the house are often cold during the summer months. My brother has a death wish. He welcomes the belly of the underworld into this house. To me, he is already a part of that world. Dealer, addicted to sex. He lives in another world.

I go to the sea. I go to the extraordinary ocean to feel safe and sane again in this mad world. The hallucination of the woman comes and goes. The sea is either gentle and kind, or, there’s a storm on the horizon. Boats coming in from mainland China. Dinghies. Buoys’. Ships. Teenage lovers who are in the beginning stages of their relationship. The girlfriend and the boyfriend step out hand-in-hand at the boardwalk. I think of no one in particular. If I do, it is the stakeholders in my life. All I do is take a look at my mother. The matriarch of the family. The woman who turned my brother into a ghost. The woman my sister has become is the exact replica of my mother. She is on her way now to Budapest, Hungary. I think she’s brave. She’ll spend the Christmas there with another foreigner. They’ll have a tree. Exchange gifts. I think it is a lonely life. A life filled with despair and hardship. But who am I to talk? I still live at home with my parents. At heart, I am still a child. Love was made for translation. Like my childhood sea.


    
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