NAPLÓK: nélküled
Legutóbbi olvasó: 2024-03-28 17:32 Összes olvasás: 1675961100. | [tulajdonos]: black box | 2020-01-21 18:46 |
Nobody cares about what I write, so.
I will write about it today because I have wanted to for a while and because I don't think I will ever feel like writing about it or him any more.
I realised what I loved about him. It was suggested by his face, the rearrangements of its features, as if his eyebrows, nose and lips were drawn all over by some superior power, the glow that almost could be seen breaking through the skin - well, I should be more down-to-earth, I sound mad, which I am not. I simply love his face when he's not totally in control, but overwhelmed, when I can see, or rather I can feel that he feels. Because at these moments he suggests a possible depth and such a possible strength of emotions he denies and would not want for himself, such a capability of passion that he becomes devastatingly beautiful. So, in short, what I loved about him was his love. Not his loving me, because he never cared a bit about me but the way he could love someone. Or hate for that matter. (Again, not me, he really has no feelings towards me, I am only an embarrassment he would rather not have in his presence.) But now I know that it was the thing I fell in love with and I am still haunted by. I saw something I was never supposed to see.
Not that it's so great to know this. Though it's certainly better to be able to love him than not to, it makes me repulsive. And the last thing I wanted at the end of my (love) life was to get into this. To feel something I can't help feeling and which I am not supposed to feel at all because of something which may not even exist, but which is as hard to forget as it is to bear if remembered.
It is written down. (I'll regret it.)
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