My road-the next exit

“When two people love each other and neither of them is in love with someone else, they should be able to figure out a way to be together.”

“I’m not saying we cannot be together, I’m only saying that I don’t want to be together until we can, if not marry, then at least date more or less exclusively.  And you’re your track record, I’d probably want some written rules you’d have to follow for disengaging.”

“I want to know what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t absolutely have to involve sex, but it would certainly involve holding hands late at night staring at each other and an open bottle of wine once a week.”

“That isn’t what I mean, and you know it.”

“It means that we have to stay in this broken up limbo until I am living somewhere else.”

“And are you doing anything to accomplish that.”

There it was.  The question I was avoiding answering.  Because I think that I was, it made sense from a practical sense as well as from an emotional standpoint.  If it worked out, then economically I would get the breathing room I needed with a few minor adjustments until things went one way or the other in court.  But if it didn’t go well, then what?   I had arranged for a near perfect scenario for everyone involved in my opinion, even if the job only turned out to be temporary.  I had enough money set aside with the income from the job to go on for a lengthy period of time.  Unfortunately, part of the job would be the requirement that I be allowed to continue with my business interests and that along with any number of other potential problems could scuttle the job even if it were available.  It was a lot to consider.  And if I didn’t go into what message would that send.  If everything went the way I had planned how would I deal with the transition?  How would we deal with it?

Occasionally i find scraps of poems barely legible in my scrawl.  She forbade me to write poetry to her, but I could not stop from writing it to myself, although without the intended audience, the need for making them legible or to keep them became less important and slowly they began to degrade, like rusting war ship, mothballed and leaking toxin into the environment.  To this day I wonder if the feelings that make me write poetry, that made me write it will ever come back again.

I wondered if without the muse if I would ever again write about things new or historically relevant.  

When I thought about the future, I repeatedly came up empty or with a false home for the future.   I would sit down to write and sometimes there would be nothing, other times only a few lines.  My mind went back to the problems and I kept telling myself “I will write out a list of love vs duty” and figure out what is wrong, but nothing comes.  I wonder if anyone would really care whether I chose to make myself look good,  or would I be just as likable if I was selfish.  The strange sense of duty, sacrifice is out of place for me.  A person who has my view of reality should have no sense of responsibility.  I should be a hedonist.  But I am not and I attribute this to fear alhough I'm not sure what I'm afraid of since the worst things happen to me not because i protect myself but because i fail to act and when i do act the results are extraordinary, dealing with my metaphysical dragons harshly, coming up with, if not unique, then polished math and sociology, solving my economic problems, simplifying my life and perhaps, perhaps even finding true love.  

With it being so obvious, why don't i realize this and carry it out in practice?