I still have flashbacks, emerging so close from within me, so close to me I see his smile again below me, see our first meeting in my shabby little nursery, Scenes of the first year and the second are there before me, in me, as if they were yesterday, like there was no time in between. I have included certain pics from that time in my gallery, a few, because I was wondering or am wondering: what are my options? Such late love, after years of abstinence, where I was so blind, and which I exaggerated so much, like a happy child, overwhelmed by my own happiness and love in his arms, maybe, that I neglected him, in my love for him – as paradoxical as that sounds – this way of wanting and loving, this fatal way, maybe, doesn't necessarily have to make dealable- he didn't find that affability in me. But like I said, to get back to the point: what should I do? I experienced this story, for two years and then again I wanted to experience them again, also, if he only returned halfway, probably speculating, a long time ago, that a woman crosses his path, which gives him back his light-heartedness—- but now, i have this story, the so singular between my dry, lonely, but also free years- I moved in with this man, I dropped everything, now or never; so i thought 2018. But now, what should I do (for the third time the question to myself):
You can't write your own story, part of it maybe, and. But then a story can slip away and you end up falling out of it, shattering into thousands of pieces. It's the reality, reality, who suddenly co-wrote the screenplay and bloody tears ripped through the blind dream. I fell flat on my face! But now: (to the fourth),
Can I just erase this story?? can i love this, this rare love for me, where there was a lot of distance and attraction for me, but maybe too little trust for me …. can i rip out, so, as if she hadn't been in the stream of my long years of lack of sensuality and embrace ….. I have said, recently, that she ended up in error, that I was no longer effective, she could design. I could in the last six months, before he left with the new love, no longer communicate with him …. about feelings …. I didn't dare anymore, I didn't know how anymore …I, I always talked about feelings, in my life, like cheese or bread or weather or health …. it was so easy for me … to say anything, what i feel and think ….
… but his kind began, to forbid me to do this. And then I dove down into that vacuum, all spring long, because of my ability: was completely deprived of communication. It made me very sick, I felt powerless, it was, as if the human, who I had loved, blind as a young girl somehow cut me off from possibility, create real connection, because he was tired of complexity and reflection. Because of the near, this very near sew, that I would have needed, was tired! But I don't want to talk about him anymore, I have the impression, that I don't know him anymore, maybe only knew something at the beginning. But I still have to think and reflect about myself and my feelings, Because I'm still tied to the story in pain and confusion, less to him, now, that goes without saying, but to the story, that shook my insides, whenever I look at his eyes, his body was.
I can't tear the story out of my late life. And if it was the wrong one! I can't leave her, as long as no new story haunts me too, the equally intense, is fulfilling and moving. I know, that I probably won't live to see a story anymore, no love story, Less, because I – as he liked to say, not exactly able to relate, which I don't believe – rather, because the illness no longer gives me the strength, to indulge, because i am here, with me. And only here. I would run far, I as well, to absorb other impressions, impressions, That would make me dilute the singularity of this love, to travel, throw me into things, maybe even flirt ….
But I'm playing dead. And it was nice, when he came. I have to integrate the story into my life, at this awkward late point, where it happened, even if you me, as I wrote to my colleague from FB at the time, maybe actually kills, still. I have to accept them and try to metabolize their incredible contradictions; its harshness and coldness, but also our warmth, and the cocoon, that he gave me …. I need the shake, which has not made me happy for half a year now, but sick, endure, without qualifying. Accept, that I can't change, that I met and loved this man, and not another, who wasn't there. And that he kicked me out of his life, his heart, his spirit … that this is possible, even though I've never experienced anything like this in my life.
I am disposable, now, also, after I'm already trash because of my illness. Then there is the graphics crisis because of my work, which also makes me very ill, unfortunately. But …
and that's what I wanted to say: that I decided, to integrate the few pics of this time with him into my gallery, easy, because this story is goddamn part of my life now! Because I trembled inside her – stop alone, without him! An amputee story, in this sense, which was experienced differently, a story, where one left early … the other didn't notice. But I have experienced them. It's MY STORY. I have written about it in my prose, I still write about it from time to time ….
it's a wound, a burn, but instead of another two years of loneliness and emptiness, I have seen these wounds and burns, this unhealable pain, how so, I do not know either. And to find an attempt at peace, with my story, the whole story, i have the pic “Starion” integrated by him ….
… i am a fallen star, but neither did I know of my immeasurable vulnerability! I was so innocent, because I had so little love and relationships in my life. my wish was, my dearest, to experience that love again! And this wish was granted to me. But my own illusion still destroys me, my own high-altitude trains …. my melting …. to love itself ….
…. it's so dead, so motionless without this current in me! I still cry far too often, I cry, because I see all the blind, pent-up inclination, that lives in me, still haven't forgotten, because I know, how it is, to feel blissful, even, if the other, the beloved, maybe didn't feel half as happy with me …..
…. I have to let go, no longer the man, I let go of that, but this intimate connection with love, this being in inclination, that made me happy, like nothing else! While I loved, I didn't want to exit anymore, despite the many symptoms, of being bedridden, love was the counterforce to death ……
… but now I want to go back to Exit and the investigations are underway. But that also absorbs me, 'Cause I can't believe, that I can leave my life, if really everything, everything on the ground lies in my existence … 'Cause I can't believe, that my literature ends up in the drawer, that I leave defeated, looking back over four years, who destroyed me. As if this were the price of bliss! Such a high price!
And now I'm crying again. I'm sure, I'm not the only one, who goes through this. Others go through it, different, maybe, but this is no consolation to me. Only a real life can heal me and move me forward. But I'm alone. Locked in my story, that I didn't write myself.
What a story I would have written for my life?
I have to tell it another time.
These amour boxes, that I've been 2020 write, are very personal. But something in me compels me, she like that, discharge in this way, maybe, because these are not actual diaries, but an inner struggle, in which a person is, who had to be left behind by someone else, without knowing the exact reasons. (Love is Magic). I write about it here, because I have to deal with it and not just cry like in the Briget Jones Crap Diary. But I have no idea, how that sounds to strangers' ears, and whether such also anything from this fight, that I experience, can take out for themselves. love makes fools. But I don't feel like a fool anymore, not at all. I feel fooled by life. I have the impression, that I'm locked into an existence, that only wants to torment me, by stealing almost all my leeway and room to move.
It's a kind of compulsion, being chronically ill and having to live in such a limited way. A vise, who won't let you go. It is to be crazy. You want to live so badly, but the disease allows it only in tiny bits. There is a prisoner menu every day through the slot.
(26.7.22)