Wrong life cannot be lived rightly.
Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia.
To betray yourself. And others. It's a kind of denial. This then the kernel of the brute. The liar is the destroyer.
Parts of my life I fooled myself out of my life, wasting my time, in standby position, years full of self-destructive numbness.
Break.
Fifteen years ago I met a man at university. He was withdrawn, sometimes stiff and awkward. I was always attracted by this type and played my favoured role, la belle dame sans merci. But this time I couldn't forget my victim. Appalled by this I turned to other men. And returned to him. Ever and ever again. Then I broke away for good, started a new, conventional life, a philistine Jane Doe.
And no birds sang.
Again I missed him and didn't know why.
When the lesson in wrong life ended just a year ago, I returned to my old life. And to him.
He was still there, still alone, his door still open.
What kind of tale is this?
