Can we really trust the stories we make up about ourselves and others? Like thinking that C., who is back in town and driving me crazy by saying such things as I wanna go to Germany with you, is really empty inside, that having sex with 100 hot Ukranian girls leaves him lost and lonely somehow and that is why he wants to install me in one of his homes as a quasi mami-wife, so in the wee hours he'll have someone to hold him tight. And that thing about his mother looking like Brigitte Bardot, and me looking a little like his mother, it's an archetype and there is something sick about it. But how well do I really know him and myself for that matter? He reads my mind only because in my pain I become so transparent. And that part of me that wants to say fuck it and go on a wild adventure. That reckless shadow self. I thought I long left that behind and replaced it by someone who enjoys doing the dishes, and drying them, and putting them away. Can I just accept that self without acting on it?
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