Split

When I saw you arrived alone, I felt happy. Strongly. For I would have time to listen to you. To know you. I would have your rapt attention. It is quite difficult to be in this ambivalent position: with the will to know and the will to give an abiding strong good impression. 

You see... this is no unfamiliar territory to me; but it is one I haven't entered in quite some time. I have found this comfortable place of no intense (but perhaps pent-up) emotion, from which I did not want to leave. 

But then you came along. Or I came along. I've formed this unfortunate habit of make-believe. A escape from a reign of sadness where I rule unjustly and alone. It would be hard to judge me for doing so, but guilt is an obscene loan word coined by the merciless who inhabited this land before me.

When he arrived I felt rather angry. Not at him, I imagine; maybe at you. I don't suppose it showed. I gave in to my weary cynicism and tried somehow to make most of it. And it didn't take me long to realise it. To see beyond the obstacle and into the man. 

Fission. This powerful fatal attraction; that genuine frank admiration. No longer together. Like adultery in a marriage that never took place. I should be relieved in a way, I guess. In an inconvenient way at least. So close strong a tie that severs before it could cement. The faint possibility of passion that is precluded. 

And stands still. Admiration can be drawn; attraction can begin to grow. So I am lost in a maze without exits; though I keep looking for them. A desperate crude attempt to give meaning to something that already meant something else. A schizophrenic relationship to those I stubbornly insist to hold dear.