I wish I could describe her moodiness in words, like it really is, like it really makes me feel... It is such an elusive feeling yet so tangible at the same time. Tangible not as in the feeling itself, but the effects that it has on me are so evident they are impossible to hide.
If I were to paint it, I would paint a shore full of seashells and seaweed in the retreating tide. A shore almost choked into lifelessness -as I am choked when her moodiness engulfs me- only to be released, gently, in a single sweeping motion, that forgives everything -even her own mad attempt to almost end my life-.
Released like a lover sometimes releases his other half knowing, hoping, ever longing, that they will meet again. It is this constant tidal cycle of near death and gentle life that stays burned in my mind from her moodiness, that so clearly leaves its marks on me. Like the shore, as the retreating waters release me I am full of extra parts, the seashells and the seaweed dangling from my spent body like a million extra tentacles of feeling, through which I may fall even deeper, ever sinking, driven by a mad gravity to a dark abyss of pure feeling and want, where the only light permitted is her, where the only way for me to go is further down.
I no longer know what is worse; the way my life almost ends in her crazy moodiness or the way I sink and fall endlessly after she releases me.
I have grown afraid to tell her of my deeper feelings, she thinks her moodiness only affects my writings, but she doesn't see the scars it leaves on my soul, on my yearning heart. She thinks because she loves me, because she is faithful to me, because she has chosen me to be the one who will share her life and her bed and her endless, endless, pool of feeling, that I can forgive her moodiness and carry on loving her and living with her as if nothing has happened except our love, our being together like people are together. Our wanting to have children like people want to have children. Our wanting to have a house on a windy island with many dogs where she could paint. Like people want to paint.
But her moodiness eats me, it is a fog that clouds my reasons for loving her. That unsettles my sense of right and wrong, that almost -god forbid- makes me yearn for a god. For something to believe in, something that would sooth my soul the way the church soothes the aching traveller.
She says that in her moodiness she is at her most creative, and I know its true. I pay the price.
So come sweet angel, cast away my reason like you always do, -leaving me writing meaningless sentences- send your waters to drown the one who loves you more, make me see the end of my life once more -like I see a streetlamp on a dark street- and then release me and make me fall ever deeper, more and more without reason.
I love you not because I want to, not because you tell me, not because I would die if I didn't; but because I can do no more.