Saturday, May 25


Being in the city of R. reminded me of a lost love, a writer I once admired, someone who used to dine with me and read my texts. In retrospect I’m not sure why I loved him, why I opened up to him or why I was so influenced by what he said. Maybe it felt like someone finally understood me without words, like I could finally shut up and be myself. I remember how badly I wanted his approval, how I would try to write perfect texts, just so he’d be proud of me and kiss my face.
And I admired him until he stole my words, until I found out he was not the person I imagined him to be. I wanted to be loved by him, perhaps like an object, not even like a girl. The last time I saw him I felt like I couldn’t reach him, not even without words. After we said goodbye I thought I would have a small nervous breakdown, that I would end up in a hospital for a few days. I left the city of R. and never spoke to him again. Recently I found out he got married. She’s half his age and sort of looks like me. If I could change things I wouldn’t change them, I would just tell her to watch out.