02.02.25

When summer came, I met a man who loved me. So much so that I doubted him. When summer ended, I learned I was right. He made me realise the constraints of womanhood, the barricades of my being. He said he would make me his wife and I told him I'm meant to be someone greater.

Another autumn, another man. Now he loved me for more concrete things - intellect, spirit and wit - full in me, lost in him. Not love but admiration and thinkers are not fond of the pedestal. What a fool he was! He thought my wit and politeness meant I had affections for him.

When winter came, a creep crept in. There were deers in the park and the predator standing beside me. This man had the wit that once was missing and yet lacking in all other aspects. No chivalry, no respect, money and connections to yield as much power. He gave me his jacket and wanted my dignity in return. What an awful thing to desire!

Then in the spring, I gave up all hope and read books and sang. I died a small death in the north side of my awful new apartment. I felt prettier dead than I did when I was serenaded by all the lonely, empty men. Come summer, I suspect, I might meet men no greater than them.