come up to meet you,
tell you I'm sorry,

Tell you how lovely you are.

I had to find you, tell you I need, tell you I set you apart.

..

Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me. I want to rush back to the start.


He never repeats the best of things. It could be because I never tell him how precious those nights were, never ask for a certain memory, and instead wonder only if he remembers. Because in between that reminiscing, there is delicious whispering and delicious giggling and delicious sighing.

We are only that. Little spots of glory, little reflections in our memory, and maybe we could be more. Maybe we are only that because three thousand measurable units of land seem much larger than us. It's a physical thing, he says. And I believe the both of us. It is a physical separation but we are also haunted by this distance in time and space. We could be more.

That is what I'm trying to tell him, but before I can finish, I hear the sound and weight of these words. I stop to wonder if he is listening and before I can finish, I forget what I'm talking about.

And then the impossibility of it dawns on you. You're quite beautiful, and you're smart, and even though there are a tremendous amount of qualities you lack, and even more that you should have never acquired - you are loved. You are loved, and though there need not be a reason, there will be. It is easy to love you, you realize and you don't have to wait.

You don't have to wait for him.
You don't have to save your virginity for him.
I mean, Hieu or Daniel, they were good boyfriends.
Were we older, and different, and lived a tad closer -
You don't have to wait for him.


I just imagine him kissing her, and stroking her hair and it makes me want to -
Stephanie was less threatening, hahaha.
But she is beautiful and I'm sure she is smart too, even though she seems like quite the airhead, if you ask me.

So, it's okay? What if he IMs you tomorrow and tells you he would quite love to go to ball with you.
And maybe it could happen to?
That promise would mean so much to me, and if it fell apart, so would I.
If I keep wanting him, and then,
it's like, wherever he goes - whereever I get rejected from.
That rejection will mean so much more.
And I don't want to live for the future anyways. It rarely works. People rarely form anything at all the only thing is, we knew we would be physically seperated so what provoked us to even try.


?
It's quite difficult to comprehend when you love someone. But what else can it be when you're holding a child's hand and running through the grass and wishing it was him? What else can it be when you are dressed out for a night in the city and you want only him. And then you stop dressing up, you stop holding hands, and his memory quiets down and you do too.

Veronika Decides To Die, Paulo Coehlo
One day I’ll get tired of hearing her constantly repeating the same things, and to please her I’ll marry a man whom I oblige myself to love. He and I will end up finding a way of dreaming of a future together: a house in the country, children, our children’s future. We’ll make love often in the first year, less in the second, and after the third year, people perhaps think about sex only once every two weeks and transform that thought into action only once a month. Even worse, we’ll barely talk. I’ll force myself to accept the situation, and I’ll wonder what’s wrong with me, because he no longer takes any interest in me, ignores me, and does nothing but talk about his friends as if they were his real world.

When the marriage is just about to fall apart, I’ll get pregnant. We’ll have a child, feel closer to each other for a while, and then the situation will go back to what it was before.

I’ll begin to put on weight like the aunt that nurse was talking about yesterday-or was it days ago? I don’t really know. And I’ll start to go on diets, systematically defeated each day, each week, by the weight that keeps creeping up regardless of the controls I put on it. At that point I’ll take those magic pills that stop you from feeling depressed; then I’ll have a few more children, conceived during nights of love that pass all too quickly. I’ll tell everyone that the children are my reason for living, when in reality my life is their reason for living.

People will always consider us a happy couple, and no one will know how much solitude, bitterness, and resignation lies beneath the surface happiness.

Until one day, when my husband takes a lover for the first time, and I will perhaps kick up a fuss like the nurse’s aunt or think again of killing myself. By then, though, I’ll be too old and cowardly, with two or three children who need my help, and I’ll have to bring them up and help them find a place in the world before I can just abandon everything. I won’t commit suicide: I’ll make a scene; I’ll threaten to leave and take the children with me. Like all men, my husband will back down; he’ll tell me he loves me and that it won’t happen again. It won’t ever occur to him that, if I really did decide to leave, my only option would be to go back to my parents’ house and stay there for the rest of my life, forced to listen to my mother going on and on all day about how I lost my one opportunity for being happy, that he was a wonderful husband despite his peccadilloes, that my children will be traumatized by the separation

Two or three years later, another woman will appear in his life. I’ll find out-because I saw them or because someone told me-but this time I’ll pretend I don’t know. I used up all my energy fighting against that other lover; I’ve no energy left; it’s best to accept life as it really is and not as I imagined it to be. My mother was right.

He will continue being a considerate husband; I will continue working at the library eating my sandwiches in the square opposite the theater, reading books I never quite manage to finish, watching television programs that are the same as they were ten, twenty, fifty years ago.

Except that I’ll eat my sandwiches with a sense of guilt because I’m getting fatter; and I won’t go to bars anymore because I have a husband expecting me to come home and look after the children.

After that it’s a matter of waiting for the children to grow up and of spending all day thinking about suicide, without the courage to do anything about it. One fine day I’ll reach the conclusion that that’s what life is like: There’s no point worrying about it; nothing will change. And I’ll accept it.