A Romance Of Flawed Beliefs

In our early days you were lost, it seemed to me, and you let me feed you with compliments, and I watched you flourish on the diet.  You were beautiful: a secret garden, a shy persona with a gift, a guarded women when I met you, who grew under my encouragement.  I believe, perhaps mistakenly, that you would cherish me in return,  but then you became more demanding than nurturing: determined in manner, and obsessed with furnishings and the social calendar.

I, it seems to me, placatory to the point of exhaustion, wondered where the gentle chrysalis I met had gone, changed now into  this demanding ‘harridan’, testing me with ever stricter lectures. I thought life offered moments of sanctuary, and when we found something worth the nurturing, it would understand that wise souls always treat those they love, “With a kindness.” but with every word and phrase you tested that belief.

My inner voice repeated “Kindness” every day, but that same voice was changing, and spoke the same truths but with an undertone of doubt. Children came and must, you quickly told me, “Be presentable” where, I always thought, the central truth was “Must be happy. ” We argued, as couples must, until that simple recognition which sparked our union was lost in a sea of disagreements and cultural conflict.

There are moments in any civilisation, where each of us think we have the final truth: the moment which connects us to the “Immortal” but which we also fear may be nothing but a wisp of smoke. Is there always the teacher and the taught: the bearer of knowledge, made weary of her burden, and the being she was sent to nourish? Are we all refugees, walking through the ruins of our youth’s dreams, seeking something worth the saving?

So you were to me, but somehow, lost in your certainties, with a plethora of commonplace observations taught you by your mother I believe, you forgot who you were talking to, or were sent to nourish, until, I found myself in another bed, seeking for the feelings you first gave me, but with another body and in another place.

Do you remember at those parties, in those early days, when to  talk to me, lean on and touch me was your only agenda? But how, at later gatherings you merely nodded in recognition when I brought you drinks so you could continue talking to another man about “Cultural confluents,”  leaving me to wander on alone among a sea of unknown faces? That is where I met her, and where she rescued me while you defined “iconoclasm” with a personage you thought might be useful in a career way. We are all metaphors in each others lives, are we not,  and I discovered, while in another’s arms, that I had exhausted yours.

About Peter Wells aka Countingducks

Trying to remember what my future is
This entry was posted in character, creative writing, Fiction, Love, Peter Wells, Relationships, Romance, writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

17 Responses to A Romance Of Flawed Beliefs

  1. I suppose this sort of thing happens often. But then again, if we can merely be entertaining, is that the worst thing?


  2. As aways, Peter, I love reading your words.

    How R U? Xxx


  3. ksbeth says:

    sad and can happen over time, with carelessness and distance of the heart.


  4. This moved me – their loss Peter your lyrical soul (and the words that are born of it) are of much more value than mere entertainment.


  5. judithhb says:

    As always there is a strong ring of truth n your words. And I am sure we have all seen this happen. Thank you Peter for once again making us look at our worlds.


  6. davidprosser says:

    All too believable Peter.There’s anguish in those words even i stoicism keep the screams in. I wonder how he children fare as they would know who holds their hand from love and who because it’s expected.


  7. I found myself switching pronouns throughout your piece. except for a few minor details, you wrote my story with my first husband (a topic that just today got raw and achy for reasons no one but me needs to know about). As I started reading, I started smiling wryly, not wanting to cry–mostly because I swore to myself today I would more waste anymore tears on that man and what transpired between us. I find it ironic that I read this piece of yours today and I had to rally my strength to read it all the way through, just like I had to live my life with him all the way through to the end of our relationship, which, isn’t as finished as I would like it to be.

    If there is any need for further proof that you write life as people live it, here it is…


  8. ASH says:

    Made me ponder.
    Loving and letting go are one it seems.


  9. catterel says:

    Heart-wrenching writing again – I comfort myself with the thought that you must have come through and finally found contentment in order to be able to write so well about suffering. I hope so, anyway 🙂


  10. Scarlet says:

    Blimey, she sounds like an uptight baggage, I imagine that there were signs of high maintenance even in the early days, am I right?


    • Luckily her origins are lost in the midst of my imaginings, if that doesn’t sound too literary, but I can well imagine she might be light on humour, and one of those disturbing people who would not let you lean your elbow on the table as you gulped a beer or six down over Sunday lunch.


  11. Jane Thorne says:

    Oh Peter, how wise this piece is…to love without agenda is something precious indeed…Xx


  12. Wow Peter, this story definitely made me think. But this lady sounds like a piece of work in my opinion, sorry lol.


  13. Al says:

    I was planning to wax eloquent about this story, but these are the only words that do it justice…….”that witch got what she deserved!”


  14. elainecanham says:

    I can never make my mind up to read your stuff as poetry or prose. It has such a lyric quality, but what happened to your cheerful stuff? Have you been reading those Russian novels, again?


  15. backonmyown says:

    Maybe it’s the fact that I’m twice-divorced, but this piece poignantly resonates with me. Provocative, as always.


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