Throw My Key Down The Drainee

 Trust me.

How? How can I trust you?

Because I'm asking you to.

Okay, I will pretend I do, but I really do not. And I can't pretend for very long.

Don't believe anyone, only believe yourself. For people lie, and let you down. You can only believe in yourself. There's always an agenda if you put your trust in other's. I trust in dreams, as Gibran says, for in them is the hidden gate. To eternity. Friendship is a sweet responsibility. Never an opportunity. Well, it isn't supposed to be.

You don't know how deep love is, until the hour of separation.

That is so true, unfortunately.

So writing it out, letting yourself bleed into the keyboard?

Exactly.

And the issue of trust?

Trust no one. I don't. Only myself.

Who betrayed you first?

My mother probably. Left me to the sharks. 

The one person you should be able to trust.

Exactly.

Husband's? Lovers?

All. All but one. So I don't trust them as far as I could throw them. But I walked away, not straight away but eventually. That is my method of dealing with. Separation is the cruellest cut. She's gone. She remains gone.  And I never look back, not for a moment. Because I never forget. I look in the mirror and I say 'You are better than this, you deserve better, so I go get better.'

Did you ever get worse?

All the time, no one is perfect but that's their problem, not mine. I built my house on solid rock. But still I skip happily through the meadows of red flags..

Conclusion?

Remain a mistress, not a wife. The price of an eighth of gold is too high. Freedom. You don't know how valuable it is until you put it in the hands of another person and it's taken away from you. Society dictates we must be partnered with another. I disagree. I don't need anyone to tell me it's time to go home, go to bed, get up.. I'm quite capable of telling myself.

Loneliness?

Freedom.

Love?

Pain.

Hate?

Not knowing something I suspect. 

So you'd rather be a mistress?

Yes, a courtesan or whatever you want to call it. Because eventually he will leave, and give all his shit to his wife.

You think it cheapens you?

No, it puts me in high value, because I can leave the relationship whenever I want to, I don't have to lose the precious gift of freedom. I enjoy the intimacy, then I like him to go sleep elsewhere. After he's mowed the lawn and refilled the woodshed of course. I don't need the dirty laundry.

That's all for today Tiny Fair, you may leave now and return to the ward. I have to say, I'm not quite sure why you're here.

I'm here because I'm not quite right.

In the head?

In every part of me. not just my head.

Okay.

Bien.

Once upon a time, there was a woman known as Tiny Fair.  She was  mental and  "freedom was her lover." Yes, she was a captivating enigma, with a mind as sharp as a blade and a spirit that could not be tamed. She roamed the world with a mischievous glint in her eye, challenging societal norms and breaking free from the constraints of convention. Her presence was both intoxicating and unsettling, drawing in those who dared to follow her on her wild and unpredictable journey. Some called her insane, others called her bad, but to those who truly understood her, she was simply a force of nature, a beacon of freedom in a world bound by rules and expectations. Rules and expectations could go fuck themselves.