I didn’t want my want for him to consume me, but it already has. The agony and the pleasure drop like hard rain right in the heart of the storm, and I am unable to tell the difference between the sky and ground, heaven and earth, love and lust. I am a masochist of love. I enjoy the pain of heartbreaks. I revel in its ache, because it means I am past the point of disappointment. Sometimes I wonder if it could get worse than this. Sometimes I wonder why I even dare to wonder, when I know it will get worse than this. And it has. I have lost my mind. I am going to marry him. Really. Literally.

I wish I could say that we were jumping into this marriage as love-fools! That would be good news, in comparison to the circumstance. Well, the statement carries a half truth. I am jumping into this marriage as a love-fool. I don’t think I need to elaborate on those details. He does not love me the way I wish he did; that is a matter of fact.

The bewildered look on your faces is something I can easily imagine: furrowed eyebrows, creases on the forehead, and of course, a cock of your head to the left, or right, depending on where gravity takes you.

This is all some kind of twisted fantasy. I waited for someone to snap me out of it. They have all tried, but I am still dazed. This must be what drunkenness feels like: a subtle consciousness of what is happening to and around you, but a complete and utter inability to take any action or hold any control over yourself or the situation. I am drunk. It does not feel good. I am not looking forward to the hangover either.

Labels: working out