One Thursday In September

Humanity flows by as the head of the Guinness slowly sinks. Thursday afternoon in London opposite the British Museum. In my ears, Damien Rice sings about faded intimacy.

Over a day has passed since I did something I vowed I'd never do - send her another e-mail.

Not that I seriously thought she would agree to see me - that was always going to be impossible.

I don't know why, precisely, though I can guess. There are some laws of human behaviour that are inviolable and apparently there is one that makes it impossible for me to ever see her again. It may as well be written in stone - the 11th commandment - thou shalt not let Jon have what he wants.

I had to ask to see her. I really didn't expect her to want to see me. Why would she? The only reasons I can think of are to exercise some kind of saintly pity, or perhaps a macabre fascination with the fate of an ex-lover^*.

I don't even know why I want to see her -- what point would it serve?

No point, other than to satisfy -- and to feed -- a deep curiousity on my part - to find out who this person really is. This person who drew me close and then pushed me away^*. I just want to see her as she is now, imperfect and flawed, so that I can forget my idealised and romanticised images of her. Absurd? Of course, for I would just update my images of her -- and my conceptions of perfection -- with vibrantly new ones.

She did the "right" thing in ignoring me, yet again. I know that rationally. But it still hurts.

As Damien Rice concludes: "I can't keep my mind off her -- until I find someone new". How true that is.

^{* - original words modified to soften overly-dramatic expression of underlying emotions.}