i laughed.

these people caught in their scripts. spirituality, signs, mistakes, love & home. free spirited. up and down tones of their voices, & they're running their lines, signing their papers, finding their next space for their things & their bodies. are you annoyed?, he asks. leading questions, i think, to misdirect into an argument over negative emotions, instead of finding growth. the woman loves him; she thinks he is a more honest, fairer, kinder, more beautiful man than he actually is. we both see his potential, but for her, it is enough, and for me, well, darling, we all have potential. she likes the organza of romance, and he likes to weave, because all that is keeping them going in the largely unfulfilling rote of their lives, is this grasp of flimsy human interaction, which truth be told, bores them existentially.

he is casually cruel, or desperately stupid; likely both, and disrespectful of himself & others in an inherent way. he is entitled and lazy and bad to his art. he is fearful, and insecure. he hurts others, knowingly, and blames it on moods and foolishness and temperament. he is the everyman in short stories, but the one that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, because he doesn't move his soul or behavior to transcendence, but cops-out, continuously, repeatedly, from person to person, situation to situation, until he dies a largely ordinary death. he fails to live his life truly & compellingly, but slips into occasional acts of style & ability. most things are done with some fear, which he could overcome with acts of bravery, but he has yet to do it. maybe he'll accomplish it at 78, when he is old, and a grandfather, in an act of true moral courage before a child, and be a changed man. i doubt it.

not because humanity is not beautiful, but because he is a man who chooses cowardice & ease when he could be the man who chose to live vulnerably & beautifully. i would never love the former, and to the latter, i'd helplessly, willingly lose my heart to.