I have a tropism toward drama.
Not all drama. Just certain kinds. I love me (it seems) some drama in which my desires come tantalizingly close to being fulfilled, but then, at the last minute, my hopes are dashed.
I don’t confine this tropism toward drama to the sexual, or the romantic, realms. Nor do I confine it to interactions, relationships, with women.
Lately, that tropism has manifested in a highly particular way. Perhaps one day I’ll tell you about how it played out with J, a woman in her 80s. Or G, a man in his 60s.
Lately, though, I’ve blown my own mind just a little with my ability to construct magnificent edifices of hope, only to dash them with what clearly are self-destructive, masochistic even, acts of self-sabotage. And with my seemingly timeless propensity for this.
There’s so much for me to say, to think, to write on the subject. But for now, you’ll have to wait.