magnificent failure
I stood on the balcony at the party, surrounded by doctors
and surgeons… they were all speaking Spanish, and I looked over into the abyss
below… a beautiful abyss of trees and plants, and I wanted to hurl myself head
first into it to escape it all… but then I thought ‘one of these cunts will
probably save me and I’ll be crippled for life.’
Thoughts
were haunting me… the thoughts of every woman I’d loved and how they all
eventually walked away in silence and stopped talking. How most of the
relationships initially, eventually, permanently broke some form of moral
boundary. How now it seems that everyone I meet says I’m too old or that they
are involved. And, what’s more, the thought that, ultimately, it’s better to be
alone because relationships are restrictive and only result in disappointment
and either pain or boredom mixed with a longing for freedom. I thought of the
one with the famous author’s name and of the majestic masterpiece that is her
arse and how every single one of her actions, movements and gestures filled me
with a sense of warmth and hope and desire but how she told me not to cross the
line and not to say any ‘crazy things.’
It’s an all
time record… in love by the second week… pushed away by the fourth. A
magnificent failure. That should be the Epitaph on my tombstone… ‘Here lies a
magnificent failure. Death was his first success.’ The coroner will probably
make a mistake on my death certificate.
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