1
Who’s door is that? Yes, truly, one door opens, but can’t I stay here, or go back in time? What if I don’t like it on the other side of that door—and who am I to think that they will open it? Ursula is asking me who’s door this is; but it’s my door, so I must be overhearing something, unless she’s trying to tell me that this is her door, and I should pursue our affair. But to think something like that might be overdoing it, given that, a long time ago, people would tell me that I think too much—and, as I understand, that may have been true, but, if it was, I had a good reason: I never should have been playing baseball in the first place, for example. I should have been drawing and painting, as I soon found out—or, when it comes to women, well, I shouldn’t have been with them at all.
You think, when you’re young, that being an adult involves having sex, and, if it doesn’t, then you should get some while you can; who wants to miss out on what is practically an essential experience for those of us that identify with the human condition—those of us that might relate, for example, to an author, like me, and, if I wasn’t having sex, then—but when you’re young you don’t realize how much time is wasted thinking about sex and whether or not you’re ready and or able to marry. The important thing, it seems, is to stave off insanity, which we commonly associate with those of us that never marry. After all, there must be something wrong with them, right? How can they live their life without being guaranteed that, at some point in the day, they will have a chance to speak, to say something meaningful—to use their vocal chords?
Hence you dedicate your life to getting laid, because, if you’re getting laid, then you have that to reassure you that no, in fact, there is nothing wrong with you—people want you, you’re desirable, you’re ok, and that makes you think that you’re safe and sound. Then you get older, and you can look back, and say, with certainty (even if you married your high-school sweetheart) that you wasted a lot of time and probably did a lot of damage to both yourself and your relationship, if you had one, because you needed that affirmation to prove to you that you’re ok. You wind up trying to prove it to each other, which is clumsy, and painful. Now, I wanted to be with Ursula, of course, but it was complicated because, at this point in my life, I’d only wind up overthinking it because the fact is that I’m in no place to contribute to a relationship.
But I believe that, if I keep doing my best, then, one day, perhaps a little far off into the future, I’ll be able to contribute. And I won’t overthink it—and, i think, in fact, I’m not overthinking it, since, hereof, I know i’m in no place to do anything but this—and I am doing this—so i’m not overthinking anything. The idea, however, and the source of some confusion, perhaps for both me and others, is this: will i ever be in a position to contribute to a relationship—a romantic one, that is? It’s possible that I’m not meant to marry—or even have a partner, or partners, or whatever means that involves romance. I look up to Ursula, and, because of that, I have no qualms about integrating with her—it doesn’t seem like it would necessarily end badly.
It won’t, or so she says. But, for those of us that don’t know, Ursula is with somebody. And, because he’s with Ursula, it goes to follow that, because of her goodness, he must be good, too. So it seems kind of wrong to have an affair. But the affair already happened—the damage has been done, and, even if this man would prove, in another life, to be a great friend of mine, romantic love is about something bigger than him—or me, or even Ursula. It’s about following your destiny, your joy of living, your reason for being, an adventure that leads, hopefully, to both happiness and security, and that is more important than anything, since we don’t know, in the present, what is meant to happen. We don’t know if we’re meant to be together, which is why we must find that out, when, that is, the affair takes on a life of it’s own, retroactively at first, and then, after that, the question is: does this person obscure or sharpen my focus and my purpose? Because if they do, nothing is more important, other than, well, a belief in a higher power, or some universal order that makes you safe—and gives you every right to be entirely happy—which would mean, of course, that the two ideas go hand in hand—and, as such, you both can and must pursue it.