Rationality subsides.

Writing is a dangerous thing. Thoughts become non-negotiable when made
concrete.

My phone incessantly chirped. It was 7:00AM, an hour that has most
recently become intolerable. It was him, his voice surprisingly clear,
even though coming from the other side of the world. Yet his words had
a clip to them, making me think that this call would not end well. His
guarded tone only pushed me further, making anything I might be
harboring immediately available as ammunition. Being twenty-four hours
away from him by air only enabled deviant thoughts to become sentences
and paragraphs of destruction. Sometimes I don't know why I even say
things I don't wholeheartedly mean, but saying them only makes me
believe them more. And as if saying things that weren't wholly true
released tension surrounding issues I didn't dare breach. Soon enough,
the conversation had turned into stifled cries and mumbled words on my
part, leaving him in demand of what might be a matter. He said he
understood, though I know he could not have. And for a little moment I
recognized that I received a little pleasure from his pain. It is
somehow too boring to exist in a guarded world of bliss and
contentment.

I'm not so sure what is so deeply offensive about his offers of care
and support, both emotionally and financially. I might be too
committed to my maverick ways, afraid to sacrifice my own sustenance
in case I might need it again or fearful of what I might be without
it. While some women might chose to define themselves by their spouse,
I could not find a happy reality in that way of life. And perhaps our
own individual commitments to being our unwavering selves guarantees
doom.