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My plan worked too well. I understand much more of myself now. How I operate, my motives- my curiously self-destructive patterns of thought. My incurable nostalgia.

I had to distance myself. I always reached out to her at my weakest. If only my timing were better this could have all been avoided. There were plenty of perfectly sensible times to say any of the pleasantly sensible things about what I was feeling, and all would have fared well. That much I know. But the details of sensibility have always escaped me. My pride would probably say that I found that kind of happiness too boring to be worthy of pursuit. My shame would tell you that I was unworthy. Perhaps more simplistically I was just afraid. A lost kid just crying in the center of a candy shop.

Which part of me talks at any given moment seems beyond my control or prediction. But eventually it was shame that got the final word. The wildly inappropriate late night phone messages, the entirely-too-intimate letters, the sudden torrents of fevered emotion erupting from a cracked stoicism that dissipated as quickly and carelessly as a poorly timed sneeze- they all extended from me with the tact of a drunkardís grope. Every sin and embarrassment swelled and piled high until my pride was choked and buried like a murdered wife.

If I had really loved her, I would have been able to simply forget her. That is my consoling afterthought. Instead I would see to it that she is locked away forever. I step her through the booking process meticulously. Every crime is thoroughly documented and attested to record. Fingerprints. Mug shot. I confiscate every option from her pockets, undress every article of security from her body, and confine her to a cell like all the others. I hose her down so that even the smell of the outside is taken from her.

She will be another fond memory hermetically sealed in tupperware and stored in the freezer. A morsel of nostalgia to be preserved until hard times, when it can be reheated and enjoyed again. It will never taste as good, but at least it is under my control.

of all misfortune, the worst kind of fate is to have been happy.

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The following comments are for "Darling"
by ochimusha

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