if a picture paints a thousand words
It’s not you, it’s me. It’s not me, it’s you. It’s me. It’s you. It’s me. Me, me, me. Me.
Why did we fail, he wants to know.
Maybe I should go back to Gadget, he suggests.
WTH!
It’s troubling, he says, to see how I used Gadget (to get my babies), and how I used him (as a rebound). As if it were premeditated. Sigh. Oh, how I sigh. Of course I can say in retrospect that I had an agenda when I married, and that was to have children. I still went into the relationship with full hope of a bright and fulfilling future. And I tried to make it work. Lord, I tried. But I couldn’t do it, and I sure as hell couldn’t do it alone, so I had to end it. Likewise, I went headlong into our whirlwind with full hope of a bright and fulfilling future. I premeditated nothing. I had no designs. No agendas. I just wanted to love and be loved. To understand and be understood. I effervesced and thrilled in the beauty of the universe that opened up to me, to us.
The drama began to infiltrate. I couldn’t make heads or tails of things and blamed it on hormones. The writing on the wall was there from early on. If not fully evident, it was written between the lines.
We don’t fit. For many reasons. But there was a moment where we did, and that moment was treasure for me.
Am I a user?
If that is how it played out, then that is how it is.
Premeditated? No. But guilty, as charged.
