A response to
Original Work Authored by : Charles Warnke
Response Authored by: Jennifer LN Martin
Men who read are equally as troublesome, but we’re not really here to dwell upon the troublesome ways of others, are we? I’d like to think not; I’d like to think the struggle of romantic love is a sort of cadence that we have yet to appreciate for it’s structure; however vehemently fraught with erraticism it may be. Passion is the classic arc of a burgeoning cataclysm; it’s the meteor, the end of days, the absolute reckoning as it lives in our minds. I find importance in becoming vulnerable to ourselves, including our passions but also in the delicate process in doing so; it’s a catch 22 that many will run from, and most (including myself) will only figure out in part. Because vulnerability is half of the battle when traversing the daunting mountains of the human condition. The inherent quality of our own actions falls into the shallow graves laid by our walking feet; we do not see them as they are happening, and if we continue to move forward, we will never see them again. But who walks that way? Women who do not read? Have they an ignorant bliss that guides them listlessly along their paths to ne’er a peaceful rise nor fall but to patiently exist? Perhaps, and so their lives will go without the deep paroxysmal bindings of a soul with imaginative record; illiterate and untangled, their bliss is enviable to a degree. But the ethereal quality of an illiterate woman is indefinitely a signal to the writer of this article; a signal that suggests he could only be happy with a woman that reads; but only when he is ready to be happy.
Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into…
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