Confused-Shoes

This morning she called me and told me that she was going to see her sweetheart later in the day. This was not so much as asking my permission as to just simply letting me know and being kind and honest to me. Immediately, naturally, I felt sad. Sad in my heart. It seemed as if I was really coming in circles, going nowhere, really. I was hanging with every word she was saying. Although she never told me categorically that she didnt love me, it was more like today i love you tomorrow its him, and vice versa. What the hell. I started feeling funny again.

Really ironic because last night before I had slept, I joked her about me having a date today with someone (because classes have been already declared suspended beforehand). She asked me who I was going out with and I didnt answer quickly so she asked me again and I finally said I was just joking and with a smiley she said goodnight. Now, Ironic because it was she, after all, who was going to have a date with someone else. With her special someone.

Funny. How long was I going to make a fool of myself? Or should I leave her? Well, if I do I absolutely have nowhere else to go. She knows that. And she wants me precisely to leave her, so she can have her peace of mind. Instead of consoling me, she constantly tells me to just forget about her, leave her to her peace. So in a way we were just tormenting each other. This is the price I have to pay for being a criminal in love in my youth and now trying to be a saint before the virgin image of my beloved.

Well, the night before yesterday I thought I had already transcended this hopeless romantic phase.

Yellow pin lights on, all white lights off, dining table chandelier blazing, I tried to relax with the ambiance. Before me was my Asahi Ashtray, two cans of Expertly brewed, full-flavored 5% alcoholic volume Pale Pilsens, a pack of Marlboro Menthols, a dish the contents of which had come from a can of Century Tuna Lite, and a glass of cold water. Heaven, I said to myself. The solitude of finding nothing lacking, everything in its proper place. Even my supposedly gloomy solitude had become a form of mystical ascetism. I tried to recall David Hume. I was a bundle of perceptions, pure sentiments, habitual, inconclusive. I was strong. I was human.

But those paraphernalias had failed to produce their intended effect. I remained the enemy of Nietzsche. I was still a slave.

Instead of sentiments I have sentimentalities. Instead of being the Overman I have become just the foulest among the herd.