Who are you, Roberto?

How do I describe thee?

Let me find the ways.
You and your words bring a collage of bright, contrasting images to mind.
A prideful, even to the point of arrogant, solitary, sorrowful, disdainful man. A professor, an artist, a poet, a dreamer, a philosopher, a lover of women yet no longer trusting of them although women of all ages, creeds, and color are drawn to you. You are a force to be reckoned with, a volcano about to erupt, a big stick of dynamite getting stuck in somebody's ass and ready to blow up. You are one of a kind, a wonder to wonder, a winter for winner, a summer for a slumber in the shade of a big oak tree in a sun-drenched, breezy, flowers-scented afternoon on the meadow high in the alpine country, a whisper by the river, and a scream by the stream. But most of all, you are a slave to a certain sentiment and a captive of a memory. You would not let go of the hurts, the haunting haughtiness of a woman. You no longer love her; you don't hate her either. But you always feel irritated and restless and annoyed and out of joint because of her scorn. Intellectually, you know she does not love you because she does not know your worth or she thinks your worth is not worth much. And that hurts. So you go to the library and embark on a program of self-improvement. You read. You think. And then you write. You write mostly about her and yourself. You write so the hurt may go away. But it does not. It will stay till the day you die. Occasionally, a witty remark from you makes a woman blush and smile. She wants to get to know you further. One thing leads to another and you get into the sack with her. For a few minutes, a few days, or maybe a few months, the old memory is held at bay, and then one early morning you wake up, it returns with full force and makes you, a grown man, cry. Tears form in your eyes and remind you that you have been cursed. You wish you had not met her, not fallen in love with her.

Last night you smiled when you saw a naysayer stuttered and stammered words of nonsense and inarticulate ignorance. You dismissed him with a flick of your wrist and a shrug of your shoulders and you walked slowly away, amused and slightly annoyed at the verbal game less than honest folks played with themselves.

You push and pull others away and toward you.