I feel the presence of a void which I have tried to strike through with unhealthy and empty relationships, relationships that taught me to enjoy being the masochist. For instance, your insult hisses into my dark skin, and releases pleasure. I do not like being in this position, because being the masochist truly means getting the short end of the stick. It means that you walk away with all the benefits of real pleasure and devotion, and that I am always the one left stuck with the pain. Another role I tend to take on to fill that void is that of the caretaker. It allows me to cement and consolidate relationships by making others dependent on me. But most often, these two roles are accompanied together. I am always the one to give more pearls than I receive, until, without haven spoken of this, and without warning, I grow sick of the collar, and begin to hate the having of a master.
The last person I had fallen in love with made me feel like a living, breathing, flying, poem. But he was also a master. The hard gavel of his judgment would come crashing down on all my dreams, and my power to grant wishes, to mold myself, and, like a chameleon, become whatever he wanted me to be. From now on, I seek not to give, but to solve the mysteries of my own existence, and to grant myself the yearnings of my true heart, meaning that from now on I must aim for my own happiness, because only mood dictates existence, and despair refuses anything beautiful, such as the time I visited California, when the showery elms looked like sprigs of hemlock, and the wind always chilled the man running through the park.