Irrationallity

I do not approve of blackmail, which is essentially how I acquired a very high GPA that semester. It was wrong. Still, I could not expose the professors or the girls. These men were upstanding university employees who I respected. They were compassionate, knowledgeable, and morally incorruptible by all accounts. I had the power to destroy them instantly. I could ruin their marriages and end their careers. I was horrified holding this evidence. It was total power over three decent, honorable human beings. I shredded all the photos and later asked the girls to destroy all record of them.

How could I ruin these men? How could I hold their actions against them? I had done nothing, yet watched a video of myself in an apparent orgy. I had resisted all temptation, yet had intercourse in a public shower. Even if I was completely innocent, who was I to judge these men?

Of course, there was a big difference. I was a single bachelor. My professors were not. Seeing the lives of those men dangle from a tiny thread brought a powerful sense of humility. I recognized the thin ice afflicting the existence of any married male. I was terrified of the awesome responsibility. How could I ever, in good faith, place myself in a position of such vulnerability? To marry was suddenly this sadistic institution of male dehumanization. I imagined myself in those pictures, married, with a career...perpetually moments from complete destruction.

All this fostered fear of Vanessa. After seeing such distinguished men fall, how could I possibly give my heart, my life, to another soul? She was correct in her entries...I could think of nothing but her.

The truth was, Vanessa and I had never touched, other than the time we shook hands, yet I was hopelessly in love with her. I would ignore her on campus and seemingly dismiss her writing. It was my defense. In fact, my heart would race in anticipation as I noticed a new entry. I was, through obligation or weakness, damned to cherish her writing and savor each word like fine wine. So rich, warm, and soothing, I drank slowly and heartily. Each phrase flowed like a gentle stream with ease and fluency. Over time I recognized it was not only for my pleasure...

The longing was apparent from her clandestine beginnings, but later, no matter how playful, trite, or naughty, it saturated ever word. Her composure was ingrained and uncompromising, only suggesting the breed of pangs that consumes one's soul from within. In no other way could their authenticity be verified. Despair was not in her, but bled nonetheless as she strained to grapple my imagination with such sparse direction. I choked my silence down each night like a spoonful of motor oil. I wanted her to know me, to feel me. Now more than ever, such a gift was suicide. Even if I could trust her, how could I trust myself? Does the cultivation of love demand the end of life itself?

The impossible irrationality of expressing my love to Vanessa was the stuff of gods; ambrosia boiled down to a sweet paste that one scoops from the bottom of the kettle with the index finger, slowly touching to the tongue. Eyes roll back in hypnosis, never dreaming of a moment such decadence is not inches away. I needed to devour it all.

It was perhaps the most serious and irrational choice I have ever made. I wondered whether it was a choice at all.