... just ... my predictive ability of modern Cassandra does not like me much anymore, because I do not like her that the evil in me I know what's going to happen, I feel it creeping tricky ... but the difference is that I always did not want to believe, until it crushes me and makes me unhappy and stupid ... ..
Yesterday, just hours before, I was thinking ... and, let's face it, I remain under the illusion that only my beliefs, my silly worries have come true ... instead, clinging to me, around me, writhing like a disgusting carnivorous plant all night ... it took me to free myself, and breathe again: last night there like an idiot with the cell phone in hand I could not get into the air, and throw it out ... for a moment I hoped that almost never happens again ...
This morning I look back, yawning, and I wonder whether it is better this way ... if indeed he has not had the "courage" that I had ... I realized recently that it was far away, that does not look more in same direction, that I was wanting to take up the plan has lost its leaves, dry branches and roots, which was eradicated ... the problem is that I was too attached to that dream, that warm glow of happiness, not I could let it go .... If my hands were like butter would have slipped away from me in a moment, maybe I would not have even noticed ... but it was like my own private sun gave me joy, I just I saw it: sometimes we get too close to me, terribly burned ... but if I did it with caution could give me the warmth I needed .... as private ??...
From one point of view has remained a small fortune: the anger in me is the only way (for dicono. ..^^) say goodbye, this time forever ... If you had gone well, so uncertain, as sketched out a framework and never finished, then maybe one day I would have liked to complete the outline ... but it was "good": a few words were enough to wake me in the blackest hatred for me to delete what is good and beautiful had been among us in those words ... yes, the nights were buried under the stars, his kisses, his hands on my skin, motor races, looks cute, walking hand in hand .... and now I'm just afraid that even in those moments I was alone with myself ...
these days I read a wonderful book ... probably some of us are like twin primes from 0.17 to 19 0.41 to 43 are ... so close together, yet they never manage to brush her really, it being lost and alone .... I have a feeling, alas, that my number is the first twin of many others, and that the only answer to my question is that life will be all alone ... The fact remains, however, this bitter taste on the palate, this headache, this urge to burst into tears ... I feel guilty now, for the time wasted, for the energies that I threw away so that he would gather and not stored carefully as the shells on the beach ... some were so rare and wonderful that, let us say, certainly not worthy ....
I can not say what I feel: I'm not just angry with him ... maybe I went too forward, and now it's hard, it hurts ... I'm tired of being the brief pleasure of someone else, the temporary trinket to throw in the trash with the remains of dinner ... it is true that the little ant is the only animal to carry on his back 50 times its weight ... but it is so fragile that it takes very little to destroy it, something out ... but also immense and terrible sense of emptiness ...
I sit here waiting for something to change and I am upset ... I meditate on that message, numb, like Madame Bovary with her basket of apricots, a part of me wants to throw at the wall, pulp and watch them slide down slowly to stay there to rot ... but, knowing me, I think I am going to eat up ad nauseam ...
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