I see a thread. But I can’t see the start. I wanted to cut it.

It looks like it runs only from my last affections to me. I could cut it. But it really goes through him, from behind him, running away, continuing. Ironically, it’s coming from me. Not from him. And before him but going away from me, but really following me, is me and what I put there, continuing all the way down to its Genesis. What was that first source? I want to know. Because I need to tell it something.

It’s not him. It’s me.

Why did we fall in love? Ideas. Many. Intertwined.

Listening to Nina Simone sing, “Suzanne.” Basically everyone’s minding their own line. That it’s the greatest and frays the most. But the connectivity is impossible to ignore. So I’m just entangled in more of my thread. Fear. A Hobgoblin. What about nervous laughter? A conversation with a friend? In this case, seems I don’t get to have that. Of all the lines, for some reason that one was cut. Fear.

The one thing I can’t straighten out is it seems he knew what to expect from himself. It seems he knew his behavior. It seems he was willing to drop me before even knowing me. I don’t understand. Or rather, I don’t want to understand because I really do understand.

No. I don’t understand.

If there is a thread, then he and I are both knots on each other’s string.

It’s us.


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