I am definitely not driving for an hour in the rain to see you for a platonic cup of coffee, when I should be doing all manner of other things. I am definitely not still at your beck and call, moulding myself to your every whim without you even realising it, and I am definitely not bitter about this. I don’t hate myself for still wanting to touch your cheek or stroke your knee, and instead I keep my hands wrapped tightly around my chai latte. I am not disappointed that we don’t even hug when we say goodbye, and I absolutely don’t stop driving on the way home and cry at the side of the road over how this is probably the last time I will ever see you. I am also not amused by the stereotypical pathetic fallacy and laughing hysterically over it as the tears continue to fall.
And I am definitely not writing about you.
She fell, she hurt, she felt. She lived. And for all the tumble of her experiences, she still had hope. Maybe this next time would do the trick. Or maybe not. But unless you stepped into the game, you would never know.
It feels good to think about you when I’m warm in bed. I feel as if you’re curled up there beside me, fast asleep. And I think how great it would be if it were true.
One writes out of one thing only — one’s own experience. Everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give. This is the only real concern of the artist, to recreate out of the disorder of life that order which is art.
Even as I hold you, I am letting you go.
My friends Gonçalo and Liliana made my zebra walk :-)
The thing that is most hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered the most wind up in parentheses.
‘He’s my whole world.’
‘Don’t ever say that about anyone again. Not even me.’