Diary, 9.6.

In this final silence, images move closer to me. On a timeline, which is no longer true, in wild confusion. Since around 5 Years ago I stopped, to process. The metabolism of that, what i experience, emotional, mental etc. is also subordinate to my physical metabolism. The slowing down of my organs actually slowed my emotionality and, in that way, made it happen, I'm still attached to this man, like on the first day, while he's long gone over the mountains. I used to be a quick metabolizer of kisses. Attraction pulsed and fell away.

Now I was stepping into a sphere, in which people who are seriously ill can only follow me. One sphere, in which life is truly sensitized to its precious moment. I live in the after, I am—- postmortem— if you like. For me life is not electricity, that keeps flowing, no train, I can jump up and down at any point…. life has no careless abundance left for me. (I think my mortality is the reason too, that I couldn't take arguments with my lover seriously enough)

But who likes that anyway?, to stew with me in this holy stinginess? To hump on my bed and ogle each other ecstatically.

I followed him here, we even thought, that maybe there is a possibility, this:
To die in his arms.

That was 2017, when I was unsure, whether this severe form of myalgic encephalomyelitis can become normal. The possibility, to die in his arms or to love him, postmortem—- these were gifts from heaven for the future after my relatively pecking poor one, lonely grain life.

To promise such, one must know each other. Be stable in yourself. Otherwise he'll take over.
One shouldn't say that, if you know about yourself, that one lives the life variant of the river, that you jump off and on again ….. that everything is easy; to promise something. And not to keep it. Another day. In which you feel different.

the great waves of pain, into which the little electrifying streams of love now flow.

I felt two thousand and fifteen, that now the immediacy of my state through Myalgic E. my relationship skills will continue to strain. All die, who had diagnosed me as psychological and got to know me with mildly unrecognized ME (so my relatives, my ex-ex), were no longer capable or only capable under more severe circumstances, to take the necessary steps and add physical illness to mental illness. Those were the years, in which I no longer knew, what to do.
The basic experience of my life: the loneliness doubled. Nothing had been added over the years, that I came closer to my fellow men, but on the contrary, had to remove.

Today I am separated from my surroundings by several panes. I am stigmatized and misunderstood in three areas, a.: in the physis, b: in the psyche, c: in art.

And I actually don't see any more docking points between myself and the environment. For example, to love you need a certain basic understanding of people, with whom one is with, otherwise you won't stop, to judge his partner as funny again and judgments patter down on you, who are outwardly and judge outwardly.

I thought for a long time, Love can love, if only you “tastes good”. But I don't know anymore, whether I should still think that …. When two people are different (and that is mostly the case), so something must penetrate the divisive element of alienation. But what is it and with what do you do it?
My answer would have been: by making love.

But I do not know ….apparently lust can, To make love, for some pass away, when one no longer understands the other in the long run. I can not understand this.
I can only understand, when one no longer does the other “tastes good”. But, that one no longer does the other “tastes good” can't depend on it, whether he understands it or not. Love can't be that superficial?

Proximity is more than this consensus, is more than: you are weird, or: you are not weird.
These are all secret valences.
Love is strange and small, arbitrarily, selfish, a deception, one animal, a natural wonder. So the; who wants the sensual fusion. The, she sighs at the sight of her lover.

The other love, the love from mother to child is so deep and long, that it reaches to the roots.

Oh, again I wanted to be loved deeply by a man. How arbitrarily or less arbitrarily you have been loved, you can see from the way, how your love goes from you.