Sunday, 30 August 2009

Why? Why am I kidding myself? What is this mad, endless passion? I can't even write anything that is not about him: my imagination focuses completel on him, and everything that is around me in the world relates to him. And this even manages to make me happy sometimes...but then, I always have to depart from him. When I've been sitting close to him for one, two hours, and I've been observing him in depth - his figure, the way he moves, the way he speaks - after a while all my senses go numb, I can't see or hear anymore, and my throat gets kinda blocked...and my heartbeat spins. Really, sometimes I'm not sure whether I'm still alive or not! And, sometimes, when melancholy does not prevail and I start telling P. about my turmoils, I have to leave. I go outside, to the countryside, and I have to run, free myself, climb hills, hurt myself with twigs and thorns. That gives me joy, a lot of joy. And then, when I can't run anymore, I just climb a tree and kinda fall asleep on it and sometimes wake up that it is night already. I am alone and I feel better, sad but safer, as if I were in a cell or something. But really, to this passion of mine I don't see an end, if not a negative one.

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