NOT GOOD FOR THE GANDER . . .

Life goes on; we have no choice. I know this. But I still think it's not right that the gander gets to have a life.

Me, I need to have a life so that I can keep my head above water, so that I can know that love in its many wonderful forms still lives and breathes, so that I don't isolate myself and just weep all day and all night long. But the gander ... shouldn't there be mourning? Shouldn't there be some measure of locking oneself in one's room and weeping and not wanting to see anyone or go anywhere? Shouldn't the misery and loneliness be the same on both ends?

I wonder if the gander feels relief. There are people out there far more normal, far more stable, far more rational, far more entertaining and interesting, far more relaxing than I am. If I were a gander, I'd prefer to be with them and avoid me too, I guess. That would make the gander a liar, for all the sweet promises and hopeful words spoken before the fissure, vows not to avoid and vows to miss and mourn. But he's been called worse things before.

Still, it's not fair. Suffering shouldn't be endured alone, and I'm no sadist, but ... I wouldn't mind if what was good for the goose was also good for the gander.

***

WALL . . .

Holding my ground is becoming harder and harder. I have my own sweet words I want to say, alternating with fury and rage that wants to be ranted aloud. But when one vows to take the back seat and throw the ball in the other's court ... how long does that vow have to stand, exactly?

***

BASICS . . .

They keep telling me to eat and sleep. I do, I really do. It's just that it's not pleasant, is all ...