Omnia's Journal

Why on Earth would he want to make me suffer like this? Is it a natural instinct to want to hurt the one whose heart is in the palm of your hand?

I mean, he knows I like him. That I like him very much, in a special kind of way. Not an everyday way. Not regular, not at all. More rara avis, really. In a way that causes me pain. In a way that causes me to wince. I think he knows. He should know, I've showed him signs and given him clues. Why, then, doesn't he do something? Why doesn't he do something? Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he has doubts about my motives, my whys and wherefores, my reasons and my rationale, my driving forces and my causal agents. Maybe he thinks I'm playing games with him. Toying with his heart. He must know. He must feel it. Come on. How can he not know? There's an electric spark between us. Or maybe more of an electric shock. Love comes into the body like lightning and leaves an inerasable mark. The spirit of the stricken one unlatches its laugh.

I have so many hopes for a hypothetical happy ending.

I have made so many plans for the two of us. I have so many fears that spoil those plans but I can set them into motion.

Why doesn't he take the first step? Why does he leave it to me to make the move? Why can't he just come to me and just tell me he cares and then see what happens? He knows I am alone and helpless. Left in the dark. He'll hurt me in more ways than one if he takes too long saying it. Maybe he doesn't like me much after all and everything I am and am going through is just another minor fling for him.

How can he think I could just be joking when I clearly show all the interest I feel. I could never joke like this. He should take my hint. In any case, the fact that I muster all my courage and approach him again and again, can't be simple indifference. I don't even let him get away from me for one day, not in my head, anyways. He should think about this, try to understand that there must be reasons. At least he shouldn't say that I'm making all this up, that I'm acting. No, I'm not. I'm definitely showing him how I feel. I don't even have to work at it. Just walking around the suburb he lives without even knowing the street and hoping that we stumble across each other by chance. Does that pass for joking? It's not normal, how indifferent he acts. It can only be feigned ignorance. A cowardly evasion, methinks. I know when I see someone who's trying to escape the pull of my feminine power. I know that sounds a bit vainglorious. You'll forgive me for that, won't you? If you understand me, and you understand my predicament, then you will forgive me. I do hope you've managed to glean at least the general gist, if not the more nuanced implications of my targeted point, even if I do explain it to you in a shitass, subaverage, manner of speaking.

There are moments that are just too sweet to bear. Moments that make you remember who you are. Moments that rembember you. These moments make you go from hale and hearty, one minute, to frail and fragile, the next. These are moments that make you feel like throwing off the towel that your parents wrapped you in, when you were a child, in an effort to shield you from the blustery, onshore, teeth-chattering gusts.

His art? In many ways I can't make up my mind about it. Is he a caring, sympathetic ally of women or a cruel and callous exploiter of them? Possibly both, I don't know. I don't know if I care. What does that say about me, I wonder?

Even with my limited sexual history, I feel I would make an idea lover for him. An ideal lover and an ideal wife. And he seems to me to be the complete opposite of the roles he's playing through the characters in his books. That's what my heart says. My brain isn't so sure, isn't so secure in that belief. I don't know. It's confounding. I can tell you that one for true. And in my discombobulated and bamboozled state of being I feel defeated by the more skilful maneuvering of his Machiavellian mindflow and his Hadean headworkings.

I feel seduced, I do, I'm not at all ashamed to admit it. And I feel even more seduced because I doubt that he's even sincere when he expresses his admiration for my person. You see, I am most attracted to that which reproaches me for being myself (attractiveness means that I see myself reflected and repudiated. The feeling of seduction arises from my discontentedness with my own female selfdom).

I would not go as far as to say that he is the enemy of women (he loves us so dearly!) but still I wonder: don't they suffer terribly, women, when they allow themselves to be portrayed in what I can only call a desirable position and yet know that any trace of mystery, any faint whisper of independence, any shadow of incipient selfhood is systematically obliterated because all he wants of us women is to serve as longstemmed (or spreadeagled) stand-ins for his simply strange, and potentially harmful, artistic vision and ventures?

Does he realize that, most of the time, he makes me feel like a person who is completely without reason? Maybe he really doesn't have any inkling of the effect he's had on me. Maybe he's too wrapped up in himself to even notice me and my pent-up, conflicting emotions.

And the excruciating psychic distress which he unwittingly cultivates and brings to pass in me.

He tries to understand women. I know he does, I can feel it, I can feel it, I can. There is evidence of that. But the desire for understanding is not always a good thing, is it?

He uncovers all too much of my beauty, beauty I didn't know I even had, in a way that is not at all flattering. He opens the door to what he thinks he knows of me and then makes a mockery of my trespassed and trampled privacy.

How many women does he know intimately, I wonder. I feel very intimate with him, indeed, though we barely know each other at all. What does that tell you about me? About him? About us both, the pair of us? Does it tell you something? Does it tell you anything? Anything at all?

Why should you have to think about anything before you answer? Isn't it all pretty obvious and self-evident? It is, to me, at least. I've had our relationship, in my head, many times over and in great depth and detail. I know exactly where we'll take our honeymoon. I know what our children's names will be. The whole thing is all played out. I even know how to work that damn tape recorder in his living room. I know how he'll take me by the hand, pull me towards him, touch me on the neck with his fingers and give me that look, before, tenderly, not too gently, taking me in his arms and kissing me so very slowly and so very thoroughly and so very lusciously and so very fully that it will feel like he's kissing me with every inch of his body and every iota of his being.

I am simply looking for a man who can give me something better than what I had when I was a child. Someone to cling to who can help me get a handle on life and all it's ups and downs. Not someone to turn me upside down and make me feel as if I've just been punched in the gut. Someone who's got time for me and my silly emotional outbursts and who is tolerant enough to keep putting up with my neediness and my selfishness and my jealous fits. It's not so much that I am jealous of the other women, but rather I am simply so much in love that I want him all to myself. I do not wish to share him with others. That is all.

I had a dream last night. We were having dinner at the Grotta Palazzese Hotel Restaurant in Polignano a Mare. He was so calm and well-tempered, and so was I. I talked to him. And he listened, I mean really listened. And when we shared the conversation, it felt like a true meeting of the minds. My naivety surprised him. I could see that in his eyes, like a man who's been served a delicious chocolate fondant on an electrified dessert plate. But all too soon the dream was over and reality encroached on my reverie. It was hard to let go. It's always hard to let go. But sometimes you have no choice in the matter.

Another thing I have to say about the man. I would have thought, with his particular kind of temperament, that he'd be more into sadomasochistic games. As I can see it. He's not into these, though. He plays a most peculiar game, it's a game for people with high morals. People who like being in control but they don't know it yet. I wonder if that's one of the points he's trying to get across with his literary constructions.

I am sorry, but to me it doesn't feel particularly nice. It feels like I'm being used for sexual gratification by a person who wants my admiration but doesn't feel ready to give me any.

The whole thing really gets me down. It wears on me. It erodes my self-regard and diminishes my self-worth. Obliterates my self-esteem. And so I make a vow to myself, a solemn vow, to stay away from him. Nil exposure. It'll be as if he no longer exists. I'll be better then, I'm sure of it. Once I get past the terrible feelings that come from breaking away from my soul's God-ordained trajectory.

I’m not suicidal. Not right this minute, anyway. I’ve tried before, tried twice and failed twice. Once by wrist-slashing and once with barbiturates. The first two death-rehearsals fizzled out and fell completely flat. The next time I'll be more purposeful. The third time's the charm, isn't that what they say?

Best to rest. Tomorrow I'll most likely feel better. At the liminal partition between insomnolence and somnolence, my thoughts turn, all-too-predictably, once more, unalterably, to him.