Against Romance

I have no patience for romantics. A shame I know so many. After my friend’s messy breakup with a pretentious pseudointellectual, she wrote his name in curly letters on a bookmark she made herself. She wrote, she wrote—long letters to him that she posted on Facebook for all her friends to see, more words on the bookmark, titled her new notebook “Return to the Imperishable Realm.” Whatever that means. I’m fond of her, but the girl’s in love with pain. How romantic.

Pain is pain is pain. There’s nothing attractive about it. And I don’t understand how music is more about the feeling than the notes when what I want to do is master the instrument. I don’t understand how the print on the wall over there makes that woman feel as if she’s floating in a calm pool of water. Abstract art, like sex, does nothing for me.

No, I don’t want candles or rose petals or any doors opened for me. “I’m just trying to make your life a little easier,” he said, as he sweetly tried to take away all my little chances to prove I could do something. Not much, but something—Let me carry things that are heavy and leave me to my own pain. He wanted everything I have. How romantic.

Pain is the infinite space within the nutshell, a private matter. If the weight is too much for you, put it in my hands. Don’t explain. I understand. I don’t understand other people’s insistence on spilling theirs on the floor or coming after me with nutcrackers. I’m not interested in sharing. I am the queen of this castle, when I must inhabit it. Such crowns are not comfortable. I will abdicate and leave this place when I can. You, stay on your own throne, but be wary of jewels and cushions.