How she longed for dead admirers. How she ached for romance without attachment, no ugly interference from work and family and community obligations. Easy alliances made and broken without regret or painful goodbyes. Moments of absolute solidarity easily forgotten by morning, though wistfully brought to mind in lonely old age.
A whirling madness consumed her. Her thoughts were falling stars, they streaked and died in less than a second and she could barely register them before they had disappeared. Only in dreams did she breath slowly, her mind’s eye focused and observant. To be awake was to be on fire, too much fuel in the world, too much to burn.
There was medicine to dull her desires, to keep her thoughts from flying out of her head. They named her, “Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder” but she rejected this moniker, calling herself, “Bitter” and “Rebellious,” she threw their pills away and made love to her freedom and called it “Cure.”
She met men who had no effect on her heart and pretended to them that she offered love. Few could accept that it was not love, only understanding, that she would willingly give, so she played at love, her mask always in place. “How sad.” she thought. “Do they not realize that understanding is rare? Love is given and taken back so easily, but who is willing and able to understand the strangest, most twisted, darkest corners of their hearts?”
“I.” says she. “I.”
There is no loneliness in isolation unless one despises one’s own company. She sleeps so willingly. She sleeps and dreams. And when she wakes, she burns.