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. Whereas I’m continuously rejecting those that I don’t want – no matter how wonderful they are. I’m not looking for anyone wonderful. I just 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 held on for over a year. Pain and bliss together. 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.
I feel that 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 heading. If I see no trace of honesty and confession making, I just lose interest. I want to see at least an attempt of wanting 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. But then they can’t call themselves writers. You write to make yourself feel better. There are no further reasons.
In the last couple of weeks, I have learnt a lot about my writing persona thanks to some wonderful people. I have become more aware of what I put onto paper and, most importantly: why. Why have I bought 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, all 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 tightly, and I couldn’t escape. I almost chopped my hand off just so I could escape. I realized it’s not just him, but my friends also remind me of my naivety. What a fool I used to be.
E. don’t be a fool.