So bizarre, no, she doesn't want it, I know she doesn't want it and that it will never happen the way I would like—something stable, a companionship, for the rest of my life, like in fairy tales...
It's not going to happen, that's not how it's written. And not what she wants... and how do I know? Because she said so. And she repeated it, maybe with more than just words—with actions. I think that's it. I know that's how I understood it. Could I have understood it wrong? Or do I want to understand it wrong, like it was with Lê, the time it took for me to accept what I already knew, and always knew: it's not going to happen. It's never going to happen, I don't know... maybe I'll die before... maybe, at the next corner when crossing the street, that person I idealize, who won't leave me—maybe she exists, and we'll meet. Or not. Or never. And that's okay, because not every idea is realistic, although every idea is valid. What we can practice is what’s kinder; we are driven by lightness and smiles, believing in a future even though it's far from being seen. Castaways at the edge of the sea, we live in search of land, running from killer fish, we don't know where we are—sun, sky all blue, wind, water, and lots and lots of water—we float on the surface, clinging to something that doesn't support our body without effort, I know... it doesn't make sense, nothing needs to. I'm going away, I'm already far. I can disappear, let go of everything, release the support that's been keeping me afloat, and let myself drown. There’s no island, no dream, no affection—it’s not needed. There’s no need to survive the end of the world. Why survive the end of the world? And be Left alone, waiting for another life—lives are rare, and my existence is tiny. It doesn't deserve to be shared; no one needs to live here. After all, here it's cramped, suffocating anguish. This isn't love, just pain. There are no victories, only escapes from true failure. I need to stop feeding myself. There's no reason to live like this... better to let it die. To live inside myself for eternity has always attracted me more—the beauty of suicide, the foretold end... the calm of the end. By the riverbank, the bad thing isn't the water, but its barriers. My current floating... I shouldn't even be alive. For a long time now. But I had time to think about it. And even now, what I can do is let myself disappear, let go of what keeps me alive, and let myself fall apart. Suffer, die. I don't know. Life drifts away.
