I had a peek into my ancient blog, http://saturdaychild.blogspot.com, and the last thing posted almost four years ago – on my birthday, moreover! – was the following untitled writing.
Turn and leave, I tell myself
Walk away from you
Do it, I whisper to myself,
Do it now while I still have a shred of self-esteem…
But it is hard as the rational part of my mind has become no more than a spectator to my emotions.
Indeed, as I give myself over to want…
And is touched again by the feel of bliss
I almost feel a sense of relief, that the war is ended, the conquest complete.
Resist, escape is a simple, reflexive imperative.
Despair that cannot defeat desire.
Or the descent into the inevitable…
I must have you.
My desire has becomes an inhuman thing, a cancer of pain that drives me to continue…
I wonder if I have ever known
What love, or pain, are truly composed of…
I remember exactly why: both great resistance and the affair with the night’s traveller on a safari.