Why did I try tell the story of how we met? The story is boring, and the way I tell it is too. But I did it anyway. I think because I felt guilty, for finding in another place, another face slightly angular, a flood of happiness like monsoon rain. Maybe I wanted to recount (and reconstruct) the story to remind myself that novelty is temporary, that genuine novelty lies in the self, not in the other. But who am I kidding? I am not so enlightened as that. With regards to this matter, there are two principles that I have so far successfully lived by: no two men at any one time, too complicated, and no man that has been taken by another woman, too cruel. And now, now I find myself on the verge of breaking both.
But what have I done? What can I possibly do in order to commit myself to such a crime? I have done nothing. I can do nothing. And yet I still feel guilty, and am pleasantly happy with this guilt. Why guilt? An example of the internalization of social norms? A masochistic mental flagellation? A struggle with a social-turned-private conscience? A by-proxy acceptance of my charges against myself, that is, a pre-confession of a crime that I am only beginning to think about, and therefore, at the same time, ensuring that I will carry out this act, ensuring that I will commit myself to it? Am I my own thought police? Am I my own rebellion?
Whatever the case, I cannot deny the effects: this one makes me feel silly happy like a teenager, with just a word, a wicked turn of phrase, a glimpse into a world vast and so much more exciting. He pushes me, without knowing. He challenges me. He inspires me. He makes me want to put on lipstick and go on a diet. He also makes me weary because for all my imaginings, I have never dared to act. But oh God, I so look forward to the day I would.