Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be married to me. To be attached to a deeply philosophical and oftentimes dark person. The kind of person whose mood can be as flippant as the Midwestern weather we know and despise. The kind of person that can fade from the present, their gaze fixed on something unseen, contemplating and entertaining a thought that can’t be released. Not until it’s been tried and dissected and studied long enough to be understood.
What’s it like to be married to someone whose mind is constantly engaged in ideas only she seems to have? Who ruminates for too long on things too far gone? Who fixates and fiddles and nitpicks within herself? Who one moment is there and the next is cascading freely into the world of literacy and fiction? Who has no qualms with nonsense?
Who so readily can recall the details of a dream, but can’t remember the due date of a bill? Who wants so desperately to escape into the wilderness to find new things, but can’t bear the thought of making doctors’ appointments or running load after load of laundry?
What’s it like to be married to such an odd thing? Whose mind can’t seem to be harnessed or contained? Who can’t stand the thought of monotony? Who can’t fathom staying in the same place for too long?