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.

It's true: if anybody could make me feel less depressed, they would. Today I received this present from P.'s girlfriend. I then remembered the reason for this is that I once helped her with an essay she needed to write for the morning after - she is not good at writing, and P. had things to do that night, so I made her a favour and just spent the night writing it.
Anyway, the packet was small, and a small neckalce was attached to it. I noticed that it was the same necklace P. was wearing when I first met him, and I liked it so much that, more than once, I had asked him to give it to me.
Inside the packet there were two little books, both of them Homer, a very nice edition that - as both books are so light - it is easy to carry around.
So...this present made me realise how great our friendship is. Especially because of the necklace. That object makes me go back to those days, happier days? It seems so to me now. It seems tar I'll never live such a happiness again. Time seems to spoil everything. I don't want to complain too much. But it looks as if most things that happen to me are just visions, they don't live any trace. Not many of these things that happen, these "flowers" actually produce anything.
Not all of these "flowers" are like tha though...there are just a few of them that actually manage to produce fruits. And we should not waste these products.

Oh, it's very bad.

My energies have degenerated in a kind of restless laziness; I can't do nothing, but I can't even do something! I feel my imagination has gone, I can't feel anything towards nature, and the idea of reading makes me sick. I swear that sometimes I wish I were an office worker, just to hve, each morning, a schedule I can't get away from. Sometimes I envy friends of mine who seem to be so involved in practical things, and I wish I could be in their shoes. Maybe I should find myself a job?

Sometimes that seems a good idea. But then, I know I would very probably hate it. Really, I'm no sure what to do!

But, yeah, people have told me that this perennial longing for change and a painful restlessness I have will follow me for the rest of my life. And I kinda believe them.

I stretch my arms towards him every morning, waking from heavy dreams...for nothing; I look for him, hopelessly, every night, in my bed, when in my dreams I am sitting close to him on the grass I am holding his hand and I am kissing it endlessly. Oh, when, still half asleep, I stagger towards him and, by doing so, I wake up, I realize it had all been a dream, and a river of tears flows from my heart and, without comfort, I cry at the thought of my uncertain future. 

It's really strange how sometimes the source of your joy turns out being also the source of your pain.
That profound, warm feeling that I used to have for living nature, which used to completely satisfy my senses, now is becoming unbearable to me.
I used to spend hours in the countryside staring at the growing wheat, the rivers; I used to drown in the sight of mountains covered with trees, endless woods, lakes; I used to stare at the sky for hours, lying on the grass, no sound to disturb me except for the quiet buzzing of bees, and the light wooshing of the summer wind. I felt as if I could hear nature breathing; I would breath nature in and let a bit of human absurdity out.
I could perceive the immensity of the mountains around me, af the abyss in front of me, and of the waterfalls behind me. I could imagine this immensity and then see the human beings, nothing but little beings, hiding in their houses.
Oh, how many times I've yearned to be able to fly up to the top of those mountains, the end of those oceans, to drink some of that infinity!

Oh, just to think about those times makes my feel happier. Even just the attempt to summon those very indefinite feelings makes me feel more elevated and makes me realize how much things have changed now.
It is as if this beautiful mirage had disappeared, leaving an abyss eternally open.
How can one say: " this is ", if everything flows? If everything is swept away by the fury of the storm, if anything that mantains its form is soon crushed on the cliffs?
There is not a single moment that doesn't destroy you and everybody around you; one is always, always has to be, a destroyer. The most innocent stroll kills hundreds of worms and other insects; a movement of the foot crushes the careful constructions ants make.
It's not really hearing about huge disasters, such as heartquakes and hurricanes, that make me feel sad. What really makes me feel helpless is the fact that violence and destruction is everywhere in nature, and that it's impossible not to be part of it.
I look at the sky, at the ground, and all I can see now is an immense monster eternally devouring and eternally ruminating.

One thing is (almost) certain.
That there is nothing in this world that matters more than love. I feel this in some of the people I have constantly around, even in a simpe way, like the way P.'s younger siblings are always waiting for me to get back to them.
I went to their house yesterday to help P. fixing his piano ( well, we were gonna give it a try anyway), but basically his little brothers and sisters started chasing me and wanted me to tell the a story, and P. said to go ahead and make them happy.
So I told them this story that my grandad used to tell me about this funny man who goes thorugh an endless series of unfortunate events. It was a lot of fun, and I must say I learn so much from them everytime. Like, sometimes it happens that I make a story up and then I forget it, so they just go like: " last time the story was different..."
And they're really demanding and all that, which is funny, so now I try and be as accurate as possible!
Which kinda makes me think that, when writing or story - telling, the first draft is always the best, no matter how rough or disorgnized it is. It's the most honest.
Because the fact is that I don't think man made creations should be polished at all. They shouldn't be perfect. They should aim at perfection...but there's no point in trying and erase the traces of " a mistake". It's like erasing a memory, in a way.

P. 's girlfriend, you know, she can be such a drag.  

We had a strange conversation, me and her. 

Well, basically, weirdly P. called me and told me if I wanted to meet him at his girlfriend's house. He said he wanted to go to the cinema and would have loved to go with both me and her. I said yes, and went to her place. 

The thing is that, when I arrived, P. wasn't there yet, so I had to spend some weird minutes with her. I was kinda wandering around her room, and neither of us was talking. I happened to see this really big knife, like a dagger or something, hanging from the wall. I was about to take as I wanted to look at it, but she stopped me and got all nervous. 

I was surprised, so I asked her what the matter was. Well, she sat down on the bed, and, without looking at me, started telling me about this one episode where a friend of hers harmed herself quite seriously with that knife. She said she kept it there because she thought it looked cool, but she wouldn't touch it herself. or allow anybody else to touch it. then she said something like: " how can we prevent incidents from happening? We can be careful, but it's impossible to know exactly what's gonna happen in the end. However..."

then she stopped talking,so I'm not sure what that " however" was all about. I kinda find irritating her way of always having to limit, change, or revise everything. 

I got bored of her nonsense, and grabbed the knife and held it close to my throat, just or fun. 

She let a tiny scream out, and took the knife from me. She then shouted: " what's wrong with you? What are you doing?"

I just laughed, kinda wanted her to chill out really. 

But this thing I did got things worse...she started moaning about people who commit suicide, and said that she didn't understand why and how someone could do that. She said it is stupid. 

I told her that she shouldn't just label people or things as "stupid" without knowing what the actual problem is. I asked her: " Are you sure you know all about these things, why the y happen, what made them happen? I'm sure if you do thing about this, you would talk about it like this. "

She said that it is still something people should never do. 

I replied that it's all relative...everything, including theft, or betrayal ( I didn't mention this in a completely casual way) is relative. 

" That's different" she said. " Often you can't really control your passions or instincts...but that''s more like being drunk or stoned or something. You're just out of your mind."

I started thinking how much my own passions are sometime close to madness, and I realized I quite like that, actually. After all, many of my favorite writers and artists have at some point been considered mad or alcoholics. 

I told her that, and she said that great art has nothing to do with suicide. Suicide will always bee a matter of being weak, as it's so much easier to kill yourself than it is to live. 

I just wanted to dropped the conversation because it was making me irritated. P. wasn't there yet, he was really late. 

But then I asked her again: " So, you call it weakness? Would you say that it is weak if, for example, a person who is caught in a fire finds out he is able to move weights he wouldn't otherwise have been able to move? Or a person who rebels against some sort of injustice? I mean, if struggle is strength, then I don't see why over excitement shouldn't be. "

She looked at me and said I didn't make any sense. 

I'm used to people saying that to me, so I just ignored the comment and went on saying that human being have limits, and sometimes they can't stand situations or emotions. It's all a matter of how much you can stand really, but it has nothing to do with being "bad" or "good" 

Cause wanting to commit suicide is pretty much like dying emotionally, so it's similar to a terminal illness of the emotions or something.

I told her about this boy who used to come to my school. He drowned himself in a river because his lover ( he was gay) had left him. Apparently, he was completely in love with this other boy. 

I said that this happens when one's life stops making sense, when one gets caught in a labyrinth of emotions which are too strong to sustain. You can't say this is stupid...

She still wasn't convinced. She kept saying that, if you were intelligent, then you wouldn't to it. 

But how many times do emotions overcome our intelligence? 

I was getting kinda exasperated with this chat. And P. wasn't there yet. 

I just decided to leave, coz, what was the point anyway?

I felt really weird all the way back home. 

Weird. 

 

 

I could have a relatively nice life if I weren't so fucked up...It doesn't happen very often to have so many good things all in one. I get along quite well with my parents, I've got P., some other friends....and, ok, I have to admit that P.'s girlfriend is not so bad. She's actually pretty kind with me, the rare occasions when the two of us were together and he was not around were actually not that terrible.
Inevitably, we ended up talking about him. She's known him for longer than me, so she talked about his family, the fact that his mother is not well, and the fact that she is practically acting as a babysitter for P.'s younger siblings. Then she said how much P. has changed due to his family situation, and how he is now much more careful about relationships and stuff. I'm not sure what that means.
Anyway, I just listened to her, we were sitting in a park, I just played with the grass.
I think she is allright. She sounds pretty grown up for her age when she talk, and this scares me a bit.

I happened to find my diary, which I hadn't written on for ages...it was strange to read it back. My behavior towards P. seems so childish...and surely the situation is kinda stressing me out.

I was talking to a friend of mine recently and he said: 

"Well, you either hope to become more than just friends with P., or you don't. If you do, then do anything you can to turn your desire into reality. If you don't, then stop thinking about it."

But it's not that easy...you can't just go to, say, an ill person and tell him to kill himself to put an end to his suffering. Most of the times the same pain is so much that you don't even have the courage to try to suppress it. 

But we didn't really come to any conclusion...I do have moments of courage when I would just DO something, either go for it or just leave. But most of the times I am in between, confused.