[personal profile] mayamaia
The idea that I might indulge from time to time in a bit of schadenfreude is repellent. Nevertheless I find myself wishing to know that all this is not so easy for you as it seems. That you think of me now and then, reminding yourself that it would be cruel or wrong to take what might be just at the edge of your reach.

I find it more comforting, oddly, that you might believe I can't have been in love (not really, just obsessed, even though that implies horrible things about me) than that you believe all you felt was comfortable in the convenience of a relationship. Regardless of past truth, it is so human to doubt one's own decisions that I expect someone human to wonder if there was love, somewhere in all of that, which was too much, too disrupting, to grant full reign. If the reason one felt less than complete love was a matter not of accident but of suppressed effort.

I want to believe you are so human. I want to think that is what I love most, in anyone, that complex uncertainty of our own motives which keeps us from trying to be gods and monsters. It would be terrible to believe I might be thrown as completely astray by a person who smelled like you do, or watched like you did, so briefly.

There are few things about anyone genuinely unchangeable unless we are ready for them to be so. I am too ready for that, it is true, and I blame the nature and quality of my recall-memory because it is what seems most different about me from any but the most unchangeable person I know. But reflection upon imperfect memory, then, must change the nature of things we treasure and doubt. Love becomes more flexible in the standard mind than could ever fit the imagined ideal of Story.

Which should be the best, in fact, for the eternal adjustment of consciousness. But as we rewrite our stories, there is no reason to think they will be written according to our faiths with fears just as strong. How much better, I imagine, for the most loveable thing to be not what is perfect or sees improvement, but the struggle itself that defines us as something less than angels, subtler than gods.

So I look for that in you, beloved.
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