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won’t you sleep with me every night for a week
won’t you just let me pretend this is the love I need
and I will grow out of all the empty words I often speak
and you will be depleted, but much better off without me


i was talking to M. about breakups. we are terrible, terrible at this – talking about it. she said that the worst part is that life continues. and also that she keeps asking herself: why did i put myself into this? i agree with the affirmation – it is awful to go to work, to take a break just to cry in the bathroom. to look at people’s faces and say “i am fine. you?”. to go outside and walk right into your memories thanks to the places you’ve visited before. to have smiles engraved in your eyelids, somehow. and words. the words that keep you hanging forever. i have this thought that we can’t memorize a whole day, but you can memorize little small moments – an exchanged look; a lingering kiss; the wind against your face; the search for hands; a position when you’re lying in bed. and the torturous part is that you can relive all of it in different ways (change the order; the focus; etc), but it will never bring you any kind of relief.

i think this is where most of my energy is going and why i seem to need to sleep for 12 hours straight. how to quit this habit? i think i am stuck on this – sending energy to reliving the past. i think it’s preventing my life from moving on. i read julie delporte’s journal yesterday and i think i should do something similar. the back cover says: since you left, i draw every day. there are so many quotes from that book i want to post here. i should scan some pages later. but back to my conversation…

however, asking ‘why did i put myself into this?’ is a question i never asked myself. perhaps i should, soon. i guess that it’s the regretful tone of the question that makes me flinch. i don’t regret the plunge. i don’t regret the cold water. i don’t regret the effort to swim and not drown. i don’t regret. my problem is thinking that all of it would be enough. there’s this image that i usually have in my head that is of me taking my heart out of my chest and giving it away, to you. it’s only recently that i started realizing that without my own beating heart, i would die. sometimes i feel dead inside. perhaps i did, indeed, give my heart away. i think i did. i want it back. i will start a scavenger hunt.

a few weeks ago i was with a friend and we both saw this buggy. we immediately spoke about what it reminded us. for them, it was like a war scene from a movie. for me, it was driving around the beach. and this is how the same thing gets completely different interpretations. it’s how i think love works. we each have a different database for interpretation. giving the heart away would never be enough, just painful, this is what i should start comprehending. what could be enough was for both to open our chests, to let the hearts hear each other. to see if they could start a conversation, if there was understanding. it’s the only way to continue being alive and build something.

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