Two questions need to be answered from my previous blog: “Why do I hate her?” and “Why is loving her and loving art mutually exclusive?”
The more pertinent question is the first but the more important is the second.
Maybe the answer to the first question will lead to answer the second.
Why do I hate her?
Again, it is not a violent desire to inflict pain on her, to take revenge, or to destroy her. No, I do not feel any desire to strangle her, shoot her, or bash her in the head. Nothing of that sort. I do not have a passionate anger, bitterness or ill will.
I fell in love with her. And for a time I was actually capable of giving up writing. No wonder the muse left. I was contemplating adultery.
I wasn’t expecting to be reciprocated. But I wanted her to be my muse. For the first time, I was living the lives of the characters I wrote. It wasn’t fiction anymore. I wanted to stop writing and start living it. For the first time, I was in my own play. I was doing things I never imagined I could do. I was enjoying myself…maybe a little too much.
We were friends. Or I thought we were. But I took for granted the irrational female prejudice (a hasty generalization, I know) of classification—friends can never be lovers. But I knew that from the beginning. Hell, I was in love. I never cared for the resolution. I was in for the climax.
Then suddenly, she decided that I crossed the line. (Was I not entitled to fall in love and express it?) Five months after confessing to her that I did—through no fault of mine—she just decided to excommunicate me.
And so I attempted retraction before my execution. I confessed my being a mason, returned to the Faith, and retracted all the anti-clerical contents of the Noli and Fili. But the Church would not take me back.
Until now, I cannot understand how I got excommunicated. I mean, I have been in this situation several times before. Of course, it was the immature but natural reaction of most women. I would have understood it had she reacted immediately after my confession that I crossed her line. But it happened much later. Five months of doing what I was doing—expressing this evolved passion into actions and not anymore just words. Something we talked about and agreed upon. After five months, she just decided that I should be punished for falling in love. Just like that.
I’d like to think that we were really good friends; that she would understand that what had happened to me was not intended; that our friendship would transcend whatever passions evolved from it. Shit happens. It just happened. She knew I was not expecting reciprocation anyway.
I wanted her to be my muse.
She decided that it was a crime.
So why do I hate her?
Hate is not directed toward the other. It is actually directed to the self. It is the emptying of the self so that one is unable to give anything to the other. The contrary of Love.
Unconditional love is seeking the good of the other without expecting anything in return. Romantic and tragic but noble. Rejection is sometimes inevitable. Rejection is simply the inability of the other to reciprocate. “I’m sorry. I do not feel the same way, but thanks,” as teeny-bopper flicks would put it. Now, cutting off the relationship with the other because one decided to give himself freely is another story. Not reciprocating is different from despising the giver simply because falling in love was not part of the deal.
I’m sorry. I’m not Jesus Christ. He took it even if what we gave him was more than rejection.
* * *
She is just not worth it—leaving the muse for.
I refuse to have anything else in myself that I could give her. And so I destroy myself to stop myself from giving. Because I know if I still had anything, I would just give it to her.
I have to hate her. I have to have nothing to give to her. I have to give it to my art instead.
I have to hate her.
Because
I am still in love with her.
* * *
Me? Bitter?
