Diary of a Lady - 5

I stopped to think about the faces of my past — the people who mattered to me: The girl who introduced me to Elizabeth Kubler Ross and Leon Uris. I was in love with her. I wanted to possess her. The boy who introduced me to the economists, whose names I can't seem to remember. One of them was Virgina Woolf's husband: The dispassionate writer who worked (and continues to do so) with great discipline, the misogynist, who bought me books and introduced me to obscure works of fiction. The eternal optimist, for whom life was either black or white; oh how I envy him. I took from them, without giving back, like a blood-sucking leech. And when I had my fill, I dropped them all, slowly but steadily I shifted focus.

I did not sleep with any of them; I was more interested in their minds. We used each other, nothing more, nothing less. And now I stand alone — no regrets.

I only think of one person — he lives in Italy now, where he wears long black coats. He taught me to watch myself dispassionately. I spoke to him last night, or rather, this morning. His dispassion gives me strength to mock myself, my lack of strength and my neediness. I wish I had made love to him. I never did. No regrets.

My mind cannot stop thinking, and none of my alter egos are helping at this point. I want to break free, to escape from the shackles of this life, to stop breathing, to stop thinking. There is only one person who can keep me calm, whom I trust implicitly, and he is not here. I gave him my heart a decade ago, and he keeps it safe. But I know that even if he breaks it, I will remain unaffected. I do not have a choice, as long as I live this sordid life I live.