Really since January 2010 and at a stroke after a typically momentous Twelfth Night

September 29, 2016 § Leave a comment

Really since January 2010, and at a stroke, after a typically momentous Twelfth Night, where I left —-‘s bed in the morning and welcomed —– back into mine just after the chimes of midnight, all my writing has been about the frustration of my lost freedom. ‘Boredom is the despairing refusal to be oneself’. You must never refuse to be yourself. That is why I have forced my freedom to watch strippers and to travel alone; —– has reluctantly ceded me this freedom, this privacy, and still calls me her baby, and we still give each other love. If she can accept the pain of my solitary travels, we can stay together and be stronger than ever, and bloom and blossom, and ripen, more than ever. Always the thought though that ripening just brings the moment of going rotten nearer. Between ripeness and rotting is but a hair’s breadth, a piano wire, a knife edge. Between the perfect point of inebriation and having passed that point is but a hair’s breadth, a piano wire, a knife edge. —– laughingly told me a woman lets her man think he has freedom at the beginning but gradually, imperceptibly, tightens her coils around him like a Boa Constrictor, till he is completely trapped. I have had to fight long and hard to release the coils.
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