Imported Poems

I'm confused over a certain personal quandry, a circular paradox of life and art. I don't know where the circle began, or where it will it end - how can it end if it's circular?

I don't speak about my emotions to anyone. They reside in my heart, carefully hidden from the light of day and the humiliation I would suffer if anyone should ever look upon them. I prefer to think of myself as a rational intellectual rather than an an idealistic lover, but I was a lover first and perhaps I will always be a lover though I strive to be something else.

Out of love I wrote a piece inspired by a charming, charismatic individual. Before I put finger to keyboard I had studied him intensely, much like a biologist might study a rare but wild animal. I understood his predilections, his prejudices, his self-contradictions played out in what appears to be in a hyprocritical manner. I saw him as a mulifaceted individual with layers upon layers of personality, and it was this depth that initially drew me to him and caused me to write. Why?

Because I wanted to redeem him. I wanted to bring these opposing elements into a sound unity and consistency, to heal his wounded heart and soul. And I have found though I have no power to heal others, I derive some satisfaction by saving them in a literary work.

The fascinating thing is (very much like a narcissist, I might add) he became interested in my work, I suppose, because he enjoyed being the centerpiece, the muse, to have creativity built around him (though I would hardly call myself a decent author). Perhaps he also appreciated being understood.

In any case, I finished the piece, thinking "here art imitates life", but since then, he has been *living out the book*. He has made choices in keeping with his character, and these decisions are consistent with the age of my character when he made them.

What I fail to grasp is whether I have so attuned myself to his conscious/ego that I have forcasted the future (is this possible?) or whether the piece has become a sort of guide in his own life.

In addition, as he continues to make decisions with which I don't agree, why am I not in a great deal of pain? Why am I not suffering knowing he is behaving like a decadent playboy? Is it because I know the utter meaninglessness behind it all, and I know that on some level he is also aware of it? Is it because I so understood him that I expected nothing less, or is it because I have stuffed my feelings so far down inside of me that I can no longer make contact with them, only their reflection in my fantasy life, where I get to enjoy the bliss of true love, of self-sacrifice, etc?

I usually comprehend my own motives, feelings, thoughts, but here I am at a loss.

I think sometimes if I allowed myself to experience the despair of my own existence, I would commit suicide, so I enter into denial, lie to myself about the true state of my affairs, to make life tolerable.

I don't know.