"My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living." Anais Nin
It hurts so bad not knowing what’s happening to me. I’m thinking, and thinking… I’m thinking about you and I can’t manage to remember. I’m struggling to remember at least just a small piece of everything that was as some point. Just to be clear that it was worthed, not being another thing. One from many others that have been before and after. And I now that it was beautiful because the sense was not lying. And I know that I was in seventh heaven but right now, if truly you’ve meant so much to me why is it so hard to remember, or why do I miss so much that thing that I cannot remember. And I’m struggling. And maybe truly I would like to feel sad wishing that you meant something to me, for this you were, But then why now, between a few bottles of beers and countless cigarettes smoked, can’t find the way to figure out what was it and what is it that I can’t remember but I feel it’s missing? I crave for him that’s here . Who’s a stranger but it’s not like you were when you were mine. And I was yours. But I don’t even know who you were. How can I be so sick and healthy at the same time. To want you and to despise you in the same time. I was hungry before. I wanted to be under your skin. To understand you, to make you free. But now I want to feel. Every piece, every inch of everything. Something. It’s like I’m used to be like me, I was before too but I don’t want this anymore.
I like to be an alien. But not now.
At one point you’ve asked. And I’ve lied to you. Trying to protect myself. But now I realize.
I’ve been lying to myself all over.