Our Blissful Bayou Beginnings
Copyright 2012 by Danielle Peterson
And not love in that generalized “love for your fellow man, love of knowledge, love of art, love of abstract beauty” arena, I mean the love between a man and a woman. And not just between any man or woman, but between myself and what I at the time of my error believed to be the most perfect woman who could ever grace this moribund planet.
How wrong I was. It is almost comical in retrospect. Almost.
She is still beautiful, make no mistake about that. Her long brown hair still cascades down like some sort of waterfall of personal mockery towards me. It shines with an unholy radiance in the glow of the sunset, even more visually pleasing than it was when I first met her. But the heavy whalebone enforced corsets have long been cast aside in favor of the liberating and promiscuous fashions of these modern times.
Sometimes I can almost forget that I am a cursed man. To have seen empires turn to dust and the dark reaches of the stars penetrated in pissing contests between ideologically radical governments is, admittedly, an interesting thing. When I made my mistake I wrote on imported paper with imported ink; such decadent scribbling were the dominion of the upper echelon. Nowadays any idiot can produce endless literary vomit and share it with the world. My fascination with the internet was very quickly quelled by a bottomless chasm of utterly pointless nonsense. But I use it still. It helps me keep tabs on her, and she on me. And I am a fan of the digital piracy. I am always looking for something interesting to watch. I have a lot of time to kill.