Perhaps, sincerity.

What is it to abhor the prettied assembly of some seeking ‘other’?

What is it that is utterly intolerable?

Is it the rationale of embellishment, the forced nature of assembly or the deception of that other that we so readily seek, invite and accommodate?

For what? To what end? For what deeper drive do we abandon the full, rich, lovely quest of OUR lives to assimilate and submit ourselves to be regulated and contained by one’s attempted understanding? As if we understand ourselves let alone another, as if we own ourselves let alone another. 

What is it to deny that creeping necessity for idyllic matchmaking? To refuse the inclination to abandon personal pursuit in lieu of hopeful yet deluded companionship?

It is prison to clothe my skepticism in cheerfulness to drape my realism in ideal notions and to project agreeableness before discourse. The greater pain is my own choice in the matter: my own submission, my own betrayal of character and denial of authenticity. The greatest pain has been at my own hands. So I will no longer be that archetypical maiden, I choose to be far less pleasing but, perhaps, far more at peace. 

What is it?

Perhaps, sincerity.