It only dawned on me today that I’m probably too late. The reason why I admire E. is that she is beyond beautiful and has a fantastic job. And she gets the men she wants while I’m continuously rejecting those that I don’t want – no matter how wonderful they are. I’m not looking for someone wonderful. I want someone to extinguish the fire, so I know I can’t have him.
The heartache reminds me that I am alive. The last time felt like this was four years ago, and it lasted over a year: pain and bliss.
Every time I fall in love, I seem to get closer and closer to the chance of being loved back.
Love is best when you can’t have it (although I wouldn’t mind hugging him). When you can’t have it, you go mad, and you remain reserved at the same time. You lose weight because your appetite decreases. Only falling asleep is a pain in the arse.
Some of the student writers I’m working with are currently living a very mundane life because they aren’t digging deep enough in their hearts. I don’t know where they are going, and I’m not sure if they know where they are headed.
If I see no trace of honesty, no confessions, I lose interest. I want to see at least an attempt to retrace the deeply entombed memory or whatever the fuck had a huge impact on them. Maybe some writers have never gone crazy, or they are cowards. If so, they can’t call themselves writers. You write to make yourself feel better. There are no further reasons unless you want to make money.
In the last couple of weeks, I have learned a lot about my writing persona, thanks to some wonderful people. I have become more aware of what I put on paper and, most importantly: why. Why did I buy a ticket for this particular journey? I finally know, although it was obvious, coming to realize it is another thing. E. is going through the same condition. I clearly see the parallels in my head, except that her end is clearer, and mine is still uncertain.
Here’s another thing: E. is more courageous than me, and yet, people will mistake E.’s courage for mine. At the end of the day, she is someone I want to be; I don’t just admire her. This is the truth. And a terrible lie that I will never forgive myself for.
Once the journey is over, feminists will condemn me. They will all shout: “Burn her! Burn her! Traitor! Burn her!” And only genuine women AND men will be able to see beneath the surface.
I had a creepy dream in which that bastard found me. He grabbed hold of my hand, and I couldn’t escape. I almost chopped my hand off so that I could escape. Then, I realized it wasn’t just him, but my friends reminded me of my naivety. What a fool I used to be.
E. don’t be a fool.
