The romantic version
They both hope the impossible.
He hopes that she might desire him as a man.
She hopes that he might realize how a woman is built and that he would accept her with her issue. It is not a crime. It’s just her way of desiring. She will not bother him anyhow. He could follow his chase at his ease.
We are always told: men and women are the same species. No. They aren’t.
One cannot hope the impossible forever. The thread that all the sunrises hang on, breaks at one moment.
He hopes that her way of being would synchronize with his tides.
She hopes that one day he will stop leaving. But she doesn’t understand the low tide and the ebb tide.
Ulysses is a story written by Penelope.
He is revolted because she doesn’t treasure freedom. But he suffers to know her with another.
He would love her to belong to him… but like the lust of music or the silence of noon.
He would love her to be always the same, like the sea. Time not to touch her face and breasts. To be a statue of marble.
The more he desires her to be a thing, the less he lets her see inside him.
By the contrary, she gives herself the more ardently as he strives to turn her into a ritual object.
She explodes into an attack of fever and melancholy.
His idol falls down and crushes with noise to the asphalt. He spits with disdain.
He casts her away.
She remains locked into the cell of insomnia to haggle with his shadow.
The postmodern version
the idealist rationalism and good part of the civilization’s archives consign that men are endowed with a stronger metaphysical sense than women, that have been proven to be more carnal.
Empirically, things appear to be different.
She tells other women: he has a contagious smile that wraps you up into the vapors of other centuries. His heart is pure ember, his sights are healing water, his arms are the promise land’s ground. And when he kisses me, it’s like trying to suck the whole life out of my breast into the unforeseen depths of his being.
He tells other men: she has a perfect ass. I don’t know if I can make myself clear. By perfect ass I mean The Perfect Ass. It’s such a pity she is a sentimental cow.
Night is falling over the city of Troy.
Women are washing their blood spotted headdresses into the same waters for centuries.
The mind is a mirrors system. Everything is backwards in reality.
This explains why victims have complexes of guilt, why intelligent men are convinced that others are smarter, why arrogant pals suspect their fellows of vanity, why the ones full of envy are convinced they are coveted all the time, why women believe in men’s love.
The scientific version
The good side is that male potency is not just a myth. The bad side is that every potent man is conscious that he is a rare exemplary and he could have an army of slaves. Women that sustain they can make a devoted partner out of a potent man, applying various strategies, have never met one.
You better die of a God’s hand, after he offered you the happiness, than living a long live with a devoted slave that kisses your feet because he has nothing to offer.
The personal version
I always hated the word hope.