автор: alauda

That’s the most lonely evening in my life. Honestly – I can’t figure out what makes it so lonely! Probably the fact that I spent so many hours with you, I shared so many smiles with you, that I have no more – no hours, no smiles. Just that oneness of me sitting here, thinking, my fingers moving under their own steam, scratching the surface of my heart with uneven lines.
It was you right there, from the beginning – and I knew that it was going to hurt rather a lot, and I accepted it with the composed fatalist resignation I have been practising for years. Though I was actually never composed, except when I was asleep, and too fatalist to be healthy. But I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it.
Only trouble – I like the pain. It makes me feel significant, the little axis of Creation – and while I revolve around myself, the dizziness keeps me alive.
What do I do about it? Give me some U2 here, some Coldplay there, it’s perfectly bearable, perfectly delicious! You can even call it devotion if you don’t insist on precision…Let’s not be commonplace, though. I call it being me. I’m getting the hang of it too.
And here I am, spending another hour with you – with the vision of you, actually, the vision of you sitting on the floor, head tilted, hand reaching out to me. But there is no smile suddenly. I thought the hours had run out – wrong, it was the smiles. The hours are still there. Here, I mean. In the echo of my brain, in the memory, and they seem long, long, long, long. They are longer than I ever thought they’d be.
I feel so splendidly, sentimentally, linguistically and universally lonely.