Very well, I am pleased with my involvements this month despite the physical and mental detriment engendered by a single, powerful force, the mother evil, the tyrannical intruder: Allergies. This year, winter has successfully disrupted my happy, peaceful relationship with low temperatures.
The nights are especially sinister. I sleep with gloves, a scarf, two sweatshirts and four blankets, two which are alpaca creations.
The mornings improve, slowly.
For these reasons, and other stupid ones, I don't mind the destruction of this house. It's old and altogether inhospitable if the memories are counted. The other house in California is equally fucked, save the heater and a/c installations. Artificial warmth is indispensable, lasting infinitely longer than the uncertain warmth of a corporal embrace.
Example: Thursday night, I constructed my feelings around a moment of comfort. For a moment, my social self had disappeared with the presence of another person- my heart melted with genuine affection for them. Subsequently, I reflected in silence what I was experiencing, which was this: A tangible, healthy sample of the notoriously intricate constitution within happiness.
If the mind reconciled with the heart, or if the two declared an end to their impossible relationship, or if they did the right thing and withered away, I could sleep soundly later tonight, albeit drunk.
"I've already told you I find Bienenfeld rather like Poupette, in the sense that she endows what she loves with an abstract value, but has no real concern for it. I've often mentioned to you her bluntness when I spoke to her about Bost. That goes on. She'll never ask a question about my real feelings for Kos., or my relations with Sorokine, or what kind of state I'm in regarding your absence. She never for a single instant strives to know me, but takes me for granted- like a mathematical postulate- and builds her life upon that."
There is cruelty found specially in love, its precursors and aftermath; the initial curiosity, the considerations, the secret sufferings.
Why?
