There’s something impossible about a person with complaints of not being loved for who he really is, when he doesn’t tell who he really is. As if we should know from the gist of it.
What if I want to love for the fuck ups and all. I might be able to understand how it gets in a tangle with love given and received, and babies made under coats, or in tube. What if I made fuck ups of my own, and felt like the only one. What if I could see the way the pathways crossed and didn’t make sense and thing were done that are best forgotten.
In the absence of full exposure we all create a story. You can’t very well make complaints when you give no editorial on the tentative reported. Or when the story as written is one crafted as told and forced to believe. Who then says you didn’t know me?
I say I know only the you that you present to me. The one I dig for. And at best I can try to keep loving as the layers peel away. With the risk that once the final layer is removed it’s not that I don’t love what’s left, but that I am so used to anticipating shedding I can hardy settle for the waiting of the next revelation.
If you are brave give me the knowing of you at once so if you are rejected you know it was because you are really spoiled. Then you have something to really complain about.