Monday, August 20


Ghostly, but too real. It's always a dream, but it was reality. It haunts me, and all I want is to delete, fast forward, never rewind.
I don't want to go back to that place, it disrupts my mind, it destroys my presence. But my mind won't let me have a choice.
Can I choose? How do I let go?

"It's not your fault. I'm an idiot." 

I'm okay for a while, but then those words reappear and my heart starts pounding. I start feeling sick, my cheeks burn, it has affected me for too long. It bothers me that I don't know. What's not her fault? Why are you an idiot?
I need to archive it, and start over, but I'm finding it difficult when my dreams are always the same.
Haunted by this ghost that I can't shut up, its words and images may be right.
Karma they say, it's a bitch, they say.

"No, I don't want you to hate me."

"We were fucking idiots."

Needles and pins, under, over and everywhere.
I don't know who to point at anymore, so I point at myself and curl up into a ball and let everything go over and over.
Then recurring, these dreams, the laughter, the whispers and what is dark and makes me dark.
If I knew how to quit, I would. One thing or another. I don't know how to quit any of it.

Thursday, August 9


We pretend that you've never been here before. And that I follow you into the living room, and sit down in a new spot on the sofa, because you sat down where I usually sit. Then we can pretend that you smile at me and ask if I can make some coffee. Then you turn toward the window, and try to look at the stream of people passing by.

"Where's everyone going?"

I pretend that I can't hear you, that I have to come closer. So I sit on the armrest behind you. Then I push the hair back from your face and say you have to ask again.

"Tell me a story."

 Then we pretend that I tell you the story you like so much, about the old man and his diary. About the white hair of his head, and the brown comb in the back pocket of his corduroys. I talk about all the languages ​​he learned, and where in the world he has been. I laugh at you and say that it would be easier to talk about the places he hasn't been. Then I tell you about the part where he writes that he doesn't want to anymore, because there is nothing more to see.

We pretend that you want to see his diary. So I take you into the bedroom and show you the bookcase.

Tuesday, August 7


130909 1651.

I'm waiting in vain. Two hours ago I thought you were on your way. An hour ago I thought you might be delayed.
Now I'm thinking that I'm sitting here - waiting for you - in vain. I shouldn't disregard it, you say. But now I am.
I'm thinking that I have to get out of here too. That I need to get my mind off of you, but thoughts of you will pursue me anyway. You are with me all the time now.
Maybe you think that I'm not waiting, that I have other things to do. But the truth is that there is nothing I want or have to do except wait for you. It's just so hard not knowing when you'll show up. Or if you will at all.
Most likely the latter, which makes me sad.
When we're together, you only make me happy, ecstatic and energetic, and the second I can't see you any longer, I miss you, and you make me sad when you go, and sad when you get my hopes up, when really it may only be empty words, and a slightly vague statement, which can't even be categorized as a small promise.

Maybe I'm naive. Maybe I'm in love, maybe with you, maybe with being in love, but I don't think it's the latter.
It's probably possible to be in love with two people at once, it's just hard to know who to give up love for, and why.
The easiest and most cynical approach would be to split it into pro's and con's, wouldn't it?
To count each point under each header, and sum it up into who makes you the happiest, who will take you to the nicest places in the city, and in the world, and experience them only with you; because you're you.

This is probably the last chance in a while, I think. Last chance to see if it could have been the two of us, to really be able to feel everything at once, to climax so intensely with you, and to trace your body with my fingertips.
To whisper tiny words into your ear that makes you happy, to shout so loud from the inside of our bodies that


I explode and lose my breath, and collapse into you, feel the fragments of love in every single pore on your body, feel everything so intensely and real.

But maybe I'm naive. Perhaps our time will never come; yours and mine. Or that time will never bring spring; that it'll always be winter with a cold blanket covering us, that we desperately try to melt with all our heat.
That's what we've been doing for almost two years, isn't it? Fed off each other like desperate fireflies, each tiny molecule and ion belonging to the other; a constant and losing battle none of us are willing to give up. Not yet.
There was a time I almost gave up on everything that had to do with you. I was about to throw out everything that reminded of you, throw out every word you've written for me and thought about me; and I was about to throw up.
I was about to collapse in fear that you were to disappear, and I sunk into your words, cried and clung to them.

clung to the only thread I have around my heart attached to yours.

1847. And the second I hit send, I regretted it. But it was like an obsession. You're like an obsession to my mind and my heart. It's just repetition of loss and longing, but you are everywhere, you're in every heartbeat and every cliche of every inch of my body. Now you're so close to my skin and I inhale what is left of you and it hurts, but I can't stop.
I have to get out, but I don't know how or where.