She had always thought that she was a sub only when it came to sex. It took some years and some broken men for her to realise that it was really who she was. Maybe it was the first love. She should have walked away. The love did not justify the torment. It couldn't, it shouldn't have been enough. Ofcourse he had loved her. No. He still did love her. But aren't your survival instincts stronger? Primeval? They never did kick in or maybe if they did, she chose to fight. So she stayed. For seven grueling years.
She knew ecstasy too then. But her capacity for joy, enormous as it was, dictated the depths of her sorrows, And these were the men who attracted her. She didn't necessarily attract them. She needed peaks and valleys. Plateaus afterall are boring.
She remembered the others also. The nice ones, the loving ones, the ones who were always there. Just like she had been there for many others. And she got bored of them. One of her ex, her best friend, few random dates, et al. Didn't she say any girl would be lucky to bag him. She didn't like to be lucky. She liked to be tragic. Because he would have done anything for her. Maybe that was his mistake.
She chased the torturous ones. It was an addiction. The more they tortured her, the bigger the obsession. It wasn't love. If only it was as simple as that. And it didn't matter if the torture was intentional or situational. As long as she could make excuses for him. Logical as she was, she needed the power of rationalisation. And let him do one thing that could not be justified- despite her greatly cultivated sense of defence mechanisms and immense extent of forgiveness; she would walk away. Never to return. And if he be unfortunate enough to try and come back, it would be too late. Forgotten- a stranger who wouldn't even warrant her anger. When did he ever hurt her to begin with. Maybe he thought he did. But he never had that power over her. She was master of the games.
It was amazing. As a rational being, she knew consciously she wanted to be happy. But did she? And how could she internalise it? That she was attracted to pain and misery....her need to be the tragic hero? That unless he made her suffer, he was not worth her? It was such a contradiction, such a confusing existence for a girl who wanted just to love.
She broke hearts or had hers broken. Without tragedy and drama what was romance? There was never a mid way for her. How could there be ? The bridges she tried to create fell away at her feet plunging her into deeper labyrinths. She had designed a silly cycle for herself- self sustaining, running on her own life power- but her only fuel. It was wonderful though that she was never broken. She came out of every such experience healthier still. Never leaving a piece behind. Maybe adding one. She was a collector of souls and memories.
The last one was a sensuous sado-masochistic play, she getting off on the sufferings he inflicted, safe in the knowledge that he suffered too. She might have offered him everything. Maybe because she knew he will reject it. He was the player afterall. Or maybe she did offer him everything but the truth. The player being played for her own twisted purpose. But he did not, he could not break her. She had hoped. But she had been wrong.
So she had moved on -she had become so wonderfully adept at moving on. And that is what she needed. Someone who could break her. Someone who could break her never to be whole again. Break her into little pieces to make his own forever. In love and in torture.
Until then. She could not, she would not settle down. A nomad. Not just in her world travels, but in her travels of life and relations.Her self fulfilling prophecy. Never a fulfilling relation. Self destructive as she was. Some solace atleast - she could write.
She knew ecstasy too then. But her capacity for joy, enormous as it was, dictated the depths of her sorrows, And these were the men who attracted her. She didn't necessarily attract them. She needed peaks and valleys. Plateaus afterall are boring.
She remembered the others also. The nice ones, the loving ones, the ones who were always there. Just like she had been there for many others. And she got bored of them. One of her ex, her best friend, few random dates, et al. Didn't she say any girl would be lucky to bag him. She didn't like to be lucky. She liked to be tragic. Because he would have done anything for her. Maybe that was his mistake.
She chased the torturous ones. It was an addiction. The more they tortured her, the bigger the obsession. It wasn't love. If only it was as simple as that. And it didn't matter if the torture was intentional or situational. As long as she could make excuses for him. Logical as she was, she needed the power of rationalisation. And let him do one thing that could not be justified- despite her greatly cultivated sense of defence mechanisms and immense extent of forgiveness; she would walk away. Never to return. And if he be unfortunate enough to try and come back, it would be too late. Forgotten- a stranger who wouldn't even warrant her anger. When did he ever hurt her to begin with. Maybe he thought he did. But he never had that power over her. She was master of the games.
It was amazing. As a rational being, she knew consciously she wanted to be happy. But did she? And how could she internalise it? That she was attracted to pain and misery....her need to be the tragic hero? That unless he made her suffer, he was not worth her? It was such a contradiction, such a confusing existence for a girl who wanted just to love.
She broke hearts or had hers broken. Without tragedy and drama what was romance? There was never a mid way for her. How could there be ? The bridges she tried to create fell away at her feet plunging her into deeper labyrinths. She had designed a silly cycle for herself- self sustaining, running on her own life power- but her only fuel. It was wonderful though that she was never broken. She came out of every such experience healthier still. Never leaving a piece behind. Maybe adding one. She was a collector of souls and memories.
The last one was a sensuous sado-masochistic play, she getting off on the sufferings he inflicted, safe in the knowledge that he suffered too. She might have offered him everything. Maybe because she knew he will reject it. He was the player afterall. Or maybe she did offer him everything but the truth. The player being played for her own twisted purpose. But he did not, he could not break her. She had hoped. But she had been wrong.
So she had moved on -she had become so wonderfully adept at moving on. And that is what she needed. Someone who could break her. Someone who could break her never to be whole again. Break her into little pieces to make his own forever. In love and in torture.
Until then. She could not, she would not settle down. A nomad. Not just in her world travels, but in her travels of life and relations.Her self fulfilling prophecy. Never a fulfilling relation. Self destructive as she was. Some solace atleast - she could write.
