I wonder what goes on in a gynecologist’s mind. What does his wife think? Does he have daughters? Do they see their father when they grow to become women?
My gynecologist told me about his son, but I didn’t ask many questions.
My left hand hurts the most when I type ‘a’ or ‘q.’ My closest friend tells me to look after myself more and worry less about others, even if it’s my family who needs my attention. This advice is to stop me from falling apart, he says.
I know he means well, but why would I let my family down? Don’t I have the strength to support them? It’s not easy to move on when you know you’re leaving something behind. But in this case…
I’m not as emotional as you think; it’s just wishful thinking and my habit of romanticizing things, despite being unable to handle romanticism these days. I can only hope to have someone in the future who is emotionally stable, someone who trusts me.
A clash of individual emotions is war. That’s why people say love’s a battlefield, but it’s not. It’s black and white penetrating each other. As long as grey comes out of it, they’ll learn to deal with it throughout their lives.
All this grey area is a product of my perception of people and their personalities. I see the misunderstandings, the origin of fights and wonder whether it’d be easier to vote for a party or be ostracized by everyone because you are too inaccessible.
Everyone has their own idea of what I represent, but you’re mistaken.
I choose those that I don’t want—people I wouldn’t usually go for because they treat me better than anyone else. But then charisma seduces me with its bright eyes and hidden smiles. It’s the spark and chemical reaction. Still, this appeal only exists for the dead or the taken.
This is how it feels when you’re in love, and you don’t even know who that person is. It might also be an illusion, loneliness or the naivety of a romanticist.
My hand feels very sore now…