Of persimmons and pomegranates

The first of three installments....

The persimmon is a perennial plant, meaning it dies back in autumn and winter and returns in the spring. Despite this the plant itself still looks to me like a barren twig, the fruit overcompensating with jelly like lushness when ripe. That is what I felt like in the last relationship, sweet and glutinous and he a dry unforgiving branch, dead to the eye. Yet I lived off him for a while, drawing what nutrition I could.

I felt abundant but the longer I sat on the twig the less I felt like treacle. I was shrivelling up.

I had seen a beautiful pool cue made out of the wood of a persimmon tree. It was an amazement to me that something so beautiful could be made out of this parched twig. I struck the cue ball with force sending it spinning at the red triangle of balls, crashing into them, creating chaos. Why could he not crash into me, send me spinning and reeling, waiting for the next blissful collision.

So I decided I must free myself, drop from the tree and see what might become of it.

For a time on my own I enjoyed the freedom. They tell us that to be disconnected and solitary are conditions that one must endure, but I revelled in my time. I experienced the touch of many men and in this way began to feel alive again, as if I could sprout my own orchard. I was warned that if continued I would be branded a harlot and no one wants to marry that. Rotten fruit fallen from the tree lying on the grass helpless and decaying.

Then I met the next one.