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I suppose that you think that I'm madly in love with you underneath it all -- that you are the single most important thing in my life and that this behaviour I'm directing toward you, what you deem as cold and unresponsive and sullenly secretive, is nothing but some big act of defiance against your oh-so-irresistible magnetism.

           I suppose you think that by being so charmingly weak and sweetly boyish you're winning my resolve over and that it will be just a matter of time before I'm blinded by your attractiveness -- by your warmth and your sickening ease of manner that puts everyone else at ill ease simply because they see their lack of it. I wonder why I feel such venomous extremes of emotions with regard to you. I guess the history helps -- the moments of breathtaking pain when you simply ignore my existence to the moments of ecstasy when we're rolling around some godforsaken secret spot indulging ourselves in every act of salacious venery known to man. Hedonistically exploring every possibility with a sense of almost childlike curiosity .

           I suppose you think that I don't know you -- that I really believe your act of Genusian nature as much as you yourself believe it -- never daring to confront the truth of your basic ordinariness lest you loose that iron grip of power that you so treasure amongst your friends -- the people who sycophantically dwell in the afterglow of your very persona -- hoping to glean just a little bit of it from you to make their own personalities tolerable in their own eyes.

           I suppose that you will always think you're right. Holding onto your belief is like breathing for you. It lets you take your rightful place as triumphant warrior -- clad in your pseudo-garb of the angry young man -- who in reality has nothing more that the ability to confute and talk louder -- to guile and tempt your opponent into your battalion, so as to move on and capture more.

           I suppose so far as you're concerned your suppositions hold true. But I see you clearer now. I can touch you and know your fibres and feel your evilness and your goodness and your beauty and your repugnant hideousness and it makes me feel stronger. I can see YOU.

           I suppose that's why I love you.

© 1997 N.J., all rights reserved
 appears here by permission

Author Notes

           This is just a "venting" experiment which I completed in half an hour. I enjoy writing absurdist fiction and, I suppose, dramatic prose (in a modern sense), but, "Triumph?" being not particularly expressive of either of those genres -- Feel free to criticise, poke fun at or generally tear to shreds -- Cheers!

send N.J. comments at nj@thewritegallery.com

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