Sidewalk stories

The Saturday’s Child and Her Great Resistance

I had a peek into my ancient blog,, 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.


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