Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Sullen girls

The women change but it never becomes easier to be beloved:

If only we could agree that I will be a mystery to you and that your revealing yourself to me will not mean that I am in turn revealed to you, because you are not asking, are not interested, do not want to know and never have.

I wonder sometimes, when I look at the sullen girls on the bus, what they are dreaming. They frown at their books, their ipods, their kindles, and you wonder what petty spites, what triumphs, what trials entertain them.

Sometimes I think, would there even be anything to say? If we spoke, I would say nothing much. I don't do small talk. I do big talk or no talk at all. With men, I am useless, because I can only talk about football and politics, and they are boring. With women, I am useless, because we cannot talk about anything that means anything to us, because they have a story behind the story, and that is what I want to know, not the story they are telling me.

Mostly they are telling me I am old, ugly and useless, and I want to say I am not, but I hate to lie. Well, I say that but I'll lie. Sometimes because the truth will hurt; sometimes because the truth will not serve me. There, I admit it. Sometimes we all lie because telling the truth will not get what we want.

I have always believed though that if we all told the truth and were unafraid of it, we would all get what we wanted. Because be honest with me, we are getting plenty of what we don't want.

And I still think that if you and I were not afraid... but we are, aren't we? And I fear most of all that the sullen girls on the bus are afraid most of all of what they fear, themselves, their own golden children captured inside their hearts, corralled and they hope tamed, wrapped in iron, caught in a spiral that will never let them feel the happiness they could feel, frowning into kindles because that is easier than saying, I want you to reach inside and find me. 

And what I want, all I want, ultimately all I want, is not to be wrapped in iron, to be golden, and girls, I know, I fear it too, that underneath the iron is rust, not gold, and never has been.


Blogger Looney said...

Wow. Sometimes I feel like I see through your eyes more clearly than I do my own.

December 21, 2012 at 5:17 PM  

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