– I looked at the transcribed notes. Somehow this space of comment had something I couldn’t put my finger on.
The Ideal begins as an infatuation, a dream of a life together, a love but never a love affair, nor a carnal desire of any kind.
I once asked her. In my head, as usual.
At one point, over the course of the years, any ol’ fantasy takes a life of its own. Any man sufficiently obsessed by any woman starts to imagine possible situations and encounters whereby somehow men, in plural, I know my lot, think that stuff will actually happen.
So there I was. That’s how far I had come in my imaginary torment. It’s a torment alright. Conversations with the Ideal. As in an impossible Ideal. Gotsta keep it real.
Not that am afraid of her or her rejection. Or maybe I am. Who knows. I have come to terms of the idea of her not in my life without even asking her. I am insufficient for her. So I think. Hope is last to kick the bucket.
I asked her, as I said, in my head. How do you do that? How the fuck do you fuck me over and over again in my soul, my blood and my head without even touching me bitch?
In the end, any sensible man will realize that it’s not the other party causing the change or the magic or whatever you want to call it when a woman makes a man lose his bearings.
It’s all about what you allow the mind to take a hold of.
Years ago I would’ve acted on the feelings. But am in Europe now.
Here, there is no Manifest Destiny nor the idea of the One. Here, it’s all about the stupid utilitarianism of it all.
– Then it seemed to hit me. Does Charlie suffer cultural stuntedness? What kind of emotional vortex is this?