Random Notebook #13 - Exploring Fictional Settings and Scene Formatting

You were supposed to think all was fine when you met her at that bookstore’s café. When she quoted that epigram from the book she had just picked up from the shelve, and the epigram, when she shared it with you, turned out to be the same passage of the Bible you had just read the night before, and, because of this, you took it upon yourself to believe this a miracle of sorts, to elevate a simple coincidence to higher ground where only your interpretation is valid. That, in itself, is something you must dismantle not only for your own good, but for the good of whatever future you may have with another woman. But isn’t it ironic, and I hate to be the one to point this out to you, that the essence of that little epigram was exactly what she used to you it was over. You may not want to face this, but the fact is you must: the same excitement that made her yours, eventually gave her the ammunition to kill the relationship. You will say that I am full of it, that I am no better than you and that I am connecting circumstantial variables to come to the same conclusion you did. You further accuse me of using facts to hurt you, but I ask you, what else could I use against the indefensible position you have entrenched yourself in? What else but facts; what else but the very reality you have consciously decided to ignore? Shall I remind you what you said to me when she walked out on you that day at the bookstore? You said that seeing her bum as she walked out, paused for a moment before pushing the door to the outside, was the last image of her you were left with. Her bum! Are you serious? No doubt you will manage to make some mystical connection or some spiritual interpretation of her bum. Perhaps you could write a book, (or a short story; really, I am not sure you could sustain this any longer than a few pages), that will end up in the canon of people with obsessions with bums. Your book may become a cult favorite; a must for the bum connoisseur par excellence, or at the very least, you may find a readership among the enthusiasts. If it sounds like I am trying to diminish and discard (dismiss) your position, I am sorry. I am only doing it for your own good. For you to wallow on your sad feelings is an affront to manhood. You gambled, my friend and you lost. What else could you even demand from that woman? What else but what else she had already given you? She could give no more, and you suffocated her with your romantic parlance. Sadness didn’t “dry [her] bones,” as the epigram said, your game of cavalier did. It’s fine if you do not want to speak to me. Frankly, it’s fine if you want to end this friendship right here, right now; just think about this event as another sign that what you are doing doesn’t work, and that ultimately the only person you have to blame in the end is yourself. No, of course, I am not telling you to be a complete asshole to women (although I have to point out, for your benefit that there are many women who truly desire that in a man). It’s simply a matter of balance, of not trying so hard to please others. I’m not asking you to not be yourself, but not to be yourself at the expense of your life, your REAL life, not the one in your head. Consider all of the pain you’ve experienced in the last few years—you can’t tell me that all of it was created by others, women who made it their lives to hurt someone like you for the mere sake of seeking revenge for some wrong done to them in the past. (Although, I must admit, not only is the idea valid, but serious consideration must be given to it no matter how many varieties or forms one might encounter). It’s your life—you are free to do with it what you please, but it strikes me as a real waste if you allow life to “dry your bones.” You are in command of the rest of your life. The change you wish is up to you and you alone.