these days i even can't write into my journal anymore. only in parables, stories, fairy tales and spoken word I can express what I am going through without getting lost in my tears and endless wonderings and feminine contemplations on what i should have or shouldn't have done...
when you get to this point in a relationship in which the end seems pretty much inevitable and you see how all of your dreams and plans and hopes are doomed you look back to what you had.
it's as if someone switches a light with a different color on.
you looked back at the elevator door and looked at me and than you said, it WAS a good time...
and all I could do was to nod my head and then, in a desperate attempt to do something I whispered: don't leave, Dany.
But you left and there I sit at four o'clock in the morning and cry my eyes out over some Bob Dylan songs that stab me into my heart in such a cruel yet beautiful way.
I look back too and I get this image in my mind that all this was like drawing a sketch for a masterpiece that we were ready to paint in tears and blood and love and laughter and many times to come.
and then there was suddenly no paint anymore.
but we sketched such a beautiful story.
we outlined the whole book in one chapter.
oh man...
oh fuck
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