The burning coal March 7, 2013
I keep looking over my shoulder expecting to be caught in a
trap, when there is most likely no reason to.
Even though I keep thinking back to that poem in which she
called me a clever, illusive imp (at least I think she did), I suspect I’m not
important enough to her to bother with. I just keep reading things into the
coffee grinds at the bottom of my breakfast mug and suspect they might be real.
I’ keep thinking she wants to draw me out into the open in
order to prove to her new found friends that she was right about me the whole
time.
I keep suspected she is laying booby traps for me, when she
most likely isn’t.
You can deal with a trap – when you know it is a trap – in two
ways: you can spring it or leave it alone. Best to avoid it if possible.
Unfortunately, I have that cat and mouse personality that won’t let me leave things,
so I almost always have the urge to spring it.
But yanking a chain with nothing on the other end (meaning
it isn’t a trap after all) would only make me look foolish and confirm for her
what she has been claiming about me all along.
So, I resist, becoming the clever and illusive imp out of
necessity, because I don’t know if there is anything to worry about or if I’m
simply being paranoid, putting together pieces to a puzzle that don’t add up to
anything.
The problem with this approach occurs when there is
something to worry about, and she gets frustrated about not being able to flush
me out and comes up with even more elaborate schemes I’m not clever enough to recognize
and not elusive enough to avoid. Somehow, if what I fear most is real, I have to
stay one step ahead of it all, ignoring it where possible without giving off
the perception I might be taunting her, keep her and her friends guessing as to
what I am up to, when I’m not really up to anything at all.
Again, all this might merely be fantasy, an egotistical mindfuck
in which I think I’m more important to her than I am, the fly who would be a
wasp, when I’m a fly without wings and nothing closely resembling a stinger.
I can’t tell if she is enraged at me, thinking I have outfoxed
her, or doesn’t think about me at all, and I’m wasting my time with worry over
nothing.
In reading her poetry, I’m trying not to make the same
mistake her one-time boyfriend in Brooklyn thinking that every poem she writes
is about him, when a close analysis shows they are written for other reasons,
sometimes seasoned with a tease or two, perhaps to get the mouse to stick his
nose out of his hole so she can chop it off.
I’m not sure about photographs or some of the other odd
coincidences.
All in all, this is still a dangerous game with no possible
way of having a positive outcome. We are both locked into patterns of behavior
neither of us is capable of breaking.
I have to assume that she is still enraged at me, something
I had hoped would ease after passage of time and my total avoidance of being
anywhere near her. But our orbits do come too close to each other, especially
if she is involved with the owner of my company as I suspect she might be.
In her personal Facebook page, she quotes Buddha in Spanish:
“Holding onto anger is like seizing a coal with the intention of releasing it
onto someone, you are the one who burns.”
Hopefully, as more time passes, the coal will burn itself
out, and she will find something new, someone strong enough to love her, someone
– perhaps – the person she currently writes her love poems to.
One can only hope.
Comments
Post a Comment