I am trying very hard not to scare people off with my likes and dislikes. Even before I tell them something, I see this genuine smile in their eyes, around their mouths and cheekbones. This is when I say to myself “Oh fuck it, just smile back and let them believe what they want.” Don’t look at me in disgust. When I’m certain that they’ll have difficulty relating to what I say, then there’ll be no point in sharing, because it’ll make no universal sense. Or blame my eternal failure in expressing myself appropriately.
There are so many scars on their bodies with untold stories. It disappoints me that I tell them stories, but I get none in return.
I even feel I may scare people off with my love and devotion to my favourite band.
The same old question: What do you want from me

A tiny trace of complaint from my side and people will say “Snap out of it” and otherwise they’d sue me big time. I’ll keep swimming against the current alone then.
The next thing is people assuming that drinking is the most common thing to do. Ok, I forgot I am in Great Britain or in a world where alcohol is a party or relaxation factor and it’s only Buk who did it the way I understand.

I no longer have interests in talking about writing. They all seem to have so much fun talking about it, sharing quirks and habits. Isn’t this obvious, though? Who cares? Friends and enemies of writing…that was so ridiculous.
I wonder why people who are already eloquent choose to write. They speak well, they don’t stutter. Unless they want to tell the world about their innermost fears, then I understand. If I was as articulate and as eloquent as a politician, a TV presenter or a telephone sex whore, I wouldn’t write a single word. I would speak to a Dictaphone or produce silent movies, but I wouldn’t write.

I am in a baby’s cot of my own breakdown and the bars are so high, they disappear in the clouds. This is an impasse where all you can do is grow, grow as high as the bars, maybe then you can see something. (‘Drink me.’)
Or stagnate in your own pathetic mirage.

I am scared of double beds – those agoraphobia-inducing places on which you rest. You’ll never know when this softness will turn into quicksand. It’s all just a reminder of past mortifications and anticlimaxes. Single beds suggest this kind of fidelity that not even a dog can give you.
Single beds with decent coil springs that treat you right. When pressing your legs tightly against your chest, the single bed will give you comfort.

Are you the missing chromosome from my love’s DNA? Let me steal you and fix this disfigurement. Can you then call it genuine love or have I violated against the rules of nature? Be natural, a friend once said.
This is a critical situation where you have to ask yourself how to delineate your life.

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