Someone told me yesterday that they found my writing to be romantic. My reply was, “I think I’m more of a master of heartbreak…”
Maestro di crepacuore.
I honestly do believe, after my most recent heart slashing, I’m done.
Finnito.
While I appreciate there is quite a particular romance to the utter despair only associated with slaughter of the heart – macellazione cuore – after awhile, I don’t think I can take anymore.
I feel the worst for my friends who have had to hear about it for the past three weeks, essentially non-stop. I don’t know man. I can’t win with this heart of mine. Perhaps why romance comes out in my writing is because in my actual life, any relationship with a man turns terrible.
Over and over. Again and again.
Though my close to a decade marriage burned to the ground like all the rest, it was one of the only times I felt truly happy. Same with the luthier. This afternoon, as I sobbed in the phone to David, he replied with an empathetic, “I know, I remember how you were. I have never seen you so happy.”
Needless to say, I’ve been doing a lot of writing. Oh, and I also went to the Nigerian Independence Day Festival earlier. Food, music and beautiful humans can lighten any mood. Afterwards, I came home and cried. Again.