I know there is a way through this undergrowth of arguments and swamps, roots reaching across the path to pull me down, slippery moss of wrong turns and a mist that muffles words.
I know there is a way through to life on the other side. I know and I am finding my way.
It's hard to listen to your partner talk about a life you've had together without the words "we" and "us". Me me me me me until I was gagging on his self-obsession. He illustrates every point with a metaphor of work, and speaks to me alternately as if I were a child, or an enemy.
He has decided to wage war on life. "I will make no compromises," he announced (not that he made any before)."I will not live my life for anyone else, or do anything i don't want to do." I raised a quizzical eyebrow. "And if people don't like it, they can't just fuck off". Nice.
So off I fucked to make a cup of tea. Love might, I thought, be a series of tiny mutual accommodations, to allow your lives, your selves, to fit together with no rough edges, no tectonic quakes or tsunamis. But you'd have to find someone who at least vaguely matched to start with. If he is shaped like Italy, and I am Sicily, drifted off and booted into the Med, there isn't going to be that fit. We travel there in a week.
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