I have no idea why I started pondering this topic just now, as I'm currently quite clearly unattached, but I had some thoughts, and thought I'd explore them while they were fresh.
I must learn the discipline of saving blog posts as drafts, but there is something about this endeavour that requires it to be somewhat raw.So yes. Men. And minor injuries.
I was looking back at an ex-flingette, and thinking about how I would describe him. And the word scab came to mind.
He was an accident, and was never a particularly lovely surprise.
Yet there was then something slightly fascinating about the whole thing - echoing that feeling, the wierd urge you get when a scab lurks on your person, begging you to just scratch it a little bit.So you do.
Once, maybe twice.
Then at some point, briefly, you're committed, all of your attention is focused on this strangely fascinating thing, that though it is slightly repulsive, is also addictive.
And once it is over, the scab lying there, useless and pointless, there is a small exposed space where it used to lie. Raw flesh. And it should hurt when you touch it, and it does, a bit. But not as much as you thought it would.
Yet you've engaged with it, actively meddled and dabbled and made it oh so much worse.So it scars, as a punishment.
Fading, eventually.
Whereas some people bump in to your life. Usually, this is due to carelessness - a missed opportunity or a casual sidestep that results in a painful jolt, that quickly fades.
Thankfully, I'm not terribly accident prone.
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3 comments:
Er. He sounds like a lovely chap... This should be a poem.
Thanks m'dear - I wouldn't have the first clue how to transform it into a poem though?!
He wasn't, isn't, a nice bloke and I'm very glad I'm not in the same city as him. Nothing too dramatic, just took some time to realize true toxicity! Big hugs to you xx
And back again! Keep those weasels at arm's length I say.
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