I wanted to be alone partly because my own world was so absorbing that other people’s seemed invasive and bothersome, partly because even back then my self-absorbing solution to loneliness was to isolate even more, and partly because I swear I was a child contemplative.
And a string of maybes found me crumpled in the corner of my two-meter single bed, half of which is filled with an ashtray overwhelmed with cigarette butts, cans of beer and books half-read and half-understood. An open notebook, hundreds of coins and about three lighters. I try not to giggle with pleasure. How can things this horrible, be the only things who can hang on to me. It’s because they simply do not have souls, preferences. It’s not like they can run away from me, not like they can kick me out of their pathetic, short-lived lives. It’s not like they have a choice.
I wish people were less picky, I wish people don’t have much options.
I wanted to trace the contents of your heart and see if I was anywhere inside. I wanted to lay my head on your thighs and try not to panic with delight. I wanted to whisper your name in the air and feel as if you were there. I wanted to lie naked with you on the bathroom floor and kiss you on the lips like nobody ever did. I wanted to crumble into pieces in front of you because everything I wanted with you, you wanted with somebody else.