I’ve wanted to fly into someone’s arms while listening to my favourite songs in the background, such as “bug eyes” by Dredg. That someone might as well be mute because I don’t feel like talking at all. I can communicate with him through writing. Many men don’t like that, but I do. It gives you time to think, and you can avoid saying something stupid. Words don’t come quickly for me.
So far this year, I’ve only had one worthwhile conversation. In writing, you can be more to the point and make it come genuinely from the heart. Not many people understand that. Many want to talk on the fucking phone. But that’s so transient. However, I like short and sweet surprise calls, but they don’t happen often. The phone’s the most impersonal thing for me. I only use the phone in case of an emergency, nothing else. I’m lucky that people don’t tend to call me anymore.
Ok, the song’s over, and I’m still in no one’s arms…
Weird is that because of this; I seem to want to be alone even more. It sounds contradictory, I know. I want everyone to get the fuck out of my way and leave me in peace. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel like communicating; I just find it hard to listen to spoken words. It takes me time to take them in. I do listen, though. However, it often takes me days to register the conversation. And I only respond if it means something to that person, preferably in writing.
Write me an email instead, and you’ll get a response for sure. I feel bent. Maybe that’s the problem—on the verge of not caring anymore. When you’ve fallen on your face a lot, you become less sensitive. It may be a bad thing.
I’m currently reading “The Body” by Stephen King – the story on which the film “Stand By Me” was based. Gordie Lachance writes about how ridiculous it is to tell a secret because the people you tell this won’t understand you the way you do. They’d frown at you and wonder what the hell is wrong with you. And this makes the secret less unique; it loses meaning.
This is my response to those who have problems reading me. I don’t see the difficulty; I mean, I tell you so much about me. You should be able to read me by now.
I started reading so many books lately without finishing them. I lack the focus to understand William Faulkner’s “As I Lay Dying.” And Jack Kerouac is boring me with “Big Sur.” One of Anais Nin’s erotic short stories involving a Lesbian threesome put me off. I’m not into that.
Today I went to the library before work, and I saw that Marco Weiss wrote a book.
Last year, I told you about this 17-year-old German boy who went on holiday to Turkey with his family. He met a teenage English girl who had lied to him about being 15–she was just 13. She tried to get him to sleep with her, but he’d refused. She took it personally and told her parents that he had sexually abused her. Her mother had immediately pressed charges against Marco. Marco went to jail in Turkey. Tests proved that the girl was still a virgin, but the girl’s mother wouldn’t let it go.
Nonetheless, there was no evidence of abuse, and Marco’s trial kept getting delayed. A few months later, the girl finally made a statement, describing how Marco had been abusing her. Marco remained in prison for a total of eight months because he couldn’t prove himself innocent. The case got tedious. Last summer, Marco finally went home, but the trial isn’t over yet.
This is an abridged version of the whole story. I stood by this boy because I know what underage teenage girls in England can be like. The school girls I encountered in Northern England had lost their virginity at 11 or 12. I met a boy who lost his virginity at 10 to a girl who was 18.
German kids and teenagers don’t act as mature as the English ones. German kids are more innocent and inexperienced in nature, and Marco was exactly that. He stated in his book that as the girl was unzipping his pants, he’d already come. Which man is brave enough to admit such an embarrassing incident?!
People asked him how he felt about that girl now, whether he hated her for what she did. And you know what he said? He said no.
People also asked him whether that had changed his view on girls in general. And again, he said no. In fact, he is happily taken.
It’s beyond my grasp why he doesn’t hate her. That little slut and her mother took eight months of his life!
What would you do if you saw her again? –Marco said that he would ignore her.
I have no comment on that, mainly because Marco has found God, and I know religious people tend to forgive. I’m not religious, and I’m not a good forgive either, even if it’s going to haunt me. Does this make me a bad person?
I’m staring at my bookshelf–eyes are resting on a particular book. “A farewell to arms” by Hemingway. It has been on my shelf for years now, and I still haven’t read it. Something is telling me to do it.
I feel so exhausted. I don’t even want to think anymore or care about anyone’s business. It’s hard not to care because people lead you straight in. And then you wonder why I want to keep a distance. I’m still working on this head and heart thing.