For years I allowed the taste of the lie of love on my tongue and cruelty on my teeth to sour me on the inside. For years, as I saw friends’ families grow, I assumed they had it all—adventure, sex, none of the silence. They grew closer with never wanting total liberation while I became a dead man whose last words were a wish for nothing than a resuscitating kiss. Somehow, still, there was hope. There was hope for convenience and ritual to bring love to life. Daily, I hoped to see a different reflection in someone else’s mirror. Marriage became a movie I told myself I loved because of the deleted scenes, what should have been there. It was music written in nothing but blue notes—minor worries instead of major moments. Marriage became absurd.
Simple plans for domestication became the sound of audibly loud stitching. When I was young, I never thought I’d be married, but marriage happened and it became something of a drug to keep dreams of anything else out of the way—what I really fantasized about since I was younger.
Q: What will you be when you give up on your dreams?
In marriage there was a ceiling installed that hurt both of us when I’d rebel and hit the barrier as hard as I could. We stole what we both wanted most individually—creativity and stability. There can be nothing left when you stand in the way of what someone else loves deep inside them own heart. In doing just that, we became villains. In marriage, we tied our frayed knots into a noose in front of friends and family and did our best by doing our worst to live with love. All we wanted was to make it work, and love became a car crash on repeat. We wanted to control each other’s dreams while never talking about what they were exactly. We whittled down one another and denied any sort of conversation about self-realization. We need to make this work became what we made love to rather enjoying dreams with another. Now we can, only from afar.
What was love? What was my marriage? For me they were an impossible conversation. I wanted fire, fuck love. Marriage didn’t fix that, either, though if I had any desire to talk to God, that’s what I would have prayed for. Pretending there’s a possibility of passionate love isn’t love. We stored pestilence in a paper bag and believed it would never creep out through creases as time and growing weight made the container weak. Marriage became an assumption that there would be new memories. There were, too, but they came with all the ravishing excitement of flat lines. I heard “No.” as a sentence more than anything. The word-sentence became a creed to keep anything new at bay so I distanced myself from being alone with my wife because it was loneliness in the raw.
A man in love shouldn’t be lonely; a woman in love doubly so. I don’t write this to hurt anyone, I write it to help myself. I write to admit that sometimes the world is worth more than love. Sometimes, love is the world, but only for some people. Marriage (love, stability) is the most provincial and beautiful tradition imaginable. But only for some people.
Divorce—I won’t celebrate separation but it’s a song I’ll learn to sing. I don’t know how I’ll survive but, I know from now on when I smile, it won’t be because I’m married.