A different woman and still I am no closer to orthodox fruition. Never do I escape the sense of otherness, the sense that the world as I have conceived it might be barring my admission from a more relevant passage. Each woman is different and yet they bare the same trappings. One would juxtapose innocence with perversion, the other austerity. Yet for all their diversions they wish for the same outcome. A scoundrel or a saint? They offer different denominations but in the end I would be a husband same as any other.
I will not marry either of them for beauty is a poor substitute for sentiment and I have never loved (excluding piety). Perhaps the existence of love is but a compensatory farce, an illusion to stay the bestial instincts? If perchance it does exist and if I should have the fortune to find it then I will not be aggrieved by the delay. Let society condemn me a bachelor but a liar I am not.
I have always wanted to write a novel something along the lines of Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground but that is just wishful thinking haha. Also I think I took a rather odd approach to the prompt.