Everyone of you, angels, who made the mistake of falling in love with me, started by passionately loving this blog and then - when everything went wrong (and oh so quickly!) - hated it virulently. “Delete that blog of yours!”, you screamed, as I stared and trembled helplessly, dumbed in your tirade of unadulterated love which I never deserved and invited, gazing blank at my satanic pages. Promiscuous, promiscuous words…
You felt that I was writing you, giving you language. Words after words, phrases after phrases seeped under your skin and my pen started unearthing you, untapping your abyss. I never meant, I never meant, I was a blind miner…I was writing myself, I never knew you called me ‘myself’. When I was writing myself in I never knew that I am screaming you out.
My fingers trembled when the cursor was poised over the ‘delete’ button. Warning: this action cannot be undone. I have done it previously. I have seen the sad, serene white page: “The authors have deleted this blog. The content is no longer available.”
The authors. I never knew it was me and you.
It was so sexual: the act of reading and writing. So sinful. here I am: selfless sinner, Casanova without confidence, the Juan who never wanted to be, me what you have done to me! My sin: I write. I write myself feminine, and you read it masculine, virile. That’s what anger is, masculine, and that’s me: sad at the damage I have wrought in you. I wrote myself out and you suffer when you discover that the words are addressed to the Woman and suddenly felt that you are not that singular noun. Suddenly my written language is rendered stranger when I start speaking. And Love seemed to be so real, yet so illusory. It is the real beyond, Love is.
I continue trembling. Head hung, tears flow and I redefine silent anger towards myself and you. I tremble in trepidation, seeing you being so bare, minimally woman…when love means ‘why are you not what I desire and mean you to be’? You asked me: how long will a woman love so thanklessly? How, how long? And I am telling you dear, you loved long, so long, but it was not me you started with, you are just continuing someone else’s story in my wrecked body. If you can do so, why my words can’t address all other loved ones of mine when it is addressing you? Past continuous; love is cursed while it will remain so.
But your ensuing eruption of rage, the sky is teared from the end to the end as the sunstreak flares and writhes out.
I give up love. I falter, I halt hurt. And I will continue to write my satanic verses because I am condemned to do so…until I find me and me only in those words which I know, that simple sentence which I will arrive…bodyless head, Orpheused. The sentence I won’t utter now.
So sinful. Let me turn narcissistic and have my plunge. I will love myself the way I never was. Moi un Noir…
