The following is a diary entry where Blanche explains why she didn’t want to let the newspaper boy go; whom he reminded her of; and why she kissed him.
Time and again the notorious claws of realism tear down the cocoon I weave out of my own softness, reminding me that I never was hard or self-sufficient enough.
Since I was a little girl I dreamed of magic. A magic that would complete my cocoon and allow for the transformation of something greater…someone greater. A transformation that would replace my softness with colors brighter and stronger than that of realism itself.
For a long time, I believed Allan was my magic. For once my cocoon was complete, and the very nature of love was allowing me to become something more than a soft moth that was easily ensnared by the light of day. I was becoming a butterfly that was soft, yet radiant. I was illuminating a light, a brightness, a strength of my own that was rooted in the very foundations of a majesty most refer to as love.
Then there was realism–so quickly!
My love rendered powerless, for my heart was wholly his, but his only partly mine.
And so I realized that my cocoon was never complete to begin with. It was fifty percent illusion. Half weaved by Allan’s magic, the rest my fail attempt to complete the illusion that Allan loved no one but me.
Now there is a section of my cocoon in the shape of a heart that only Allan’s could fit before he…before I…made him leave.
The young boy today…
I thought he was the one. His eyes, like Allan’s. His composure, his elegance and soft masculinity…my magic had returned.
And then I kissed him. I kissed him and I felt something nearly common where Allan’s was ethereal. Desire. It was desire. At one point I drowned myself in it, and now I can hardly tell the difference between this desire and magic. This realism and magic. I knew that if I indulged myself with this boy our desires would only serve to cushion realism as it bled truth into our hearts. Truth in the notion that our desire isn’t love. Truth in the notion that our desire, was never and could never be love. And so, it would never be magic. It would never fit the shape left by Allan in my cocoon.
There will never be love.
There will never be magic.
Now it is about survival.
And the only savior that comes to mind is my Rosenkavalier.