Oh Tatyana, what the hell are you doing? Little (or not), weird and for some time suppressed rant that has no meaning at all and it’s not affected by up-to-date events.
I often feel like some heroine from 19th century Russian novel, which is actually quite disturbing and absolutely not as poetic or romantic as it sounds like. Nah, in this case my long-time prospect’s would not be that good.
I could choose between depressive train obsession, passionate (aka pathological and compulsive) letter writing, settling down with kind-of-a-simpleton, moving to freaking Siberia (because love conquers all, even freezing cold apparently), ending up like a fickle and tremendously naive girl who loves the wrong guy and idealizes the life of birds (oh, the freedom and no boundaries… moving every six months to other side of the planet, because it’s… cold again), or I could fetch up like one elderly madam, seriously unable to accept reality, stuck in the past and overly protective about her glamorous trees. Right.
So every time I have this strange feeling that my life is trying to be a piece of Russian romanticism or realism (and yes, I actually quite like these troubled authors) I quickly turn to the reality, not letting myself to dwell on jealousy, envy, love, hate, self-doubt or whatever crap is going on right then. And, of course literally, I rise, Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, prepared to do some shit in this world. Or at least I try.
I always thought that death is something quick that comes from around the corner and smacks you in your face. But no. Death in my case is something really slow, coming after weeks of depression and sadness. And memories. All those memories. They are everywhere. And I hate them so much.
I’m bad. Everyone told me that it will get better. But it’s getting worse. Slowly, sneakishly… I still try to resist. Fight and believe that life is going to be good. But than the memories arrive. And I can’t deal with them. I just can’t. I spend last week in weird sleeping-pills-and-alcohol cloud. Strangely, I always woke up - such a boomer.
No, death is sneaky. It will come not in angry spell, caused by rage or something like that. It slowly gets to you, takes your will to live, wears you down and than chews you like a bubble gum.
I wish to scream, begging for one more chance, crying for one last kiss. And it just kills me. It was so good, so amazing. And I want it back. I would do anything to get it back. And I won’t get it, so… yea. More pills. Because the pain is too much for me.
I will always remember the good times. They are the only ones that matters. Nothing else is important when you love somebody. And that’s the problem. It is so simple. The solution I mean. Hanging out, having fun, having own lives, but have something more as well. But the other solution is easy as well. Dump somebody just because of negative circumstances. Sleep because you can’t take another breath. Yea. All so simple. The only thing is what do you choose, right?
And I don’t want this life for me. Or any other. I’m tired of everything that happened. I just want to sleep. And try not to think about how much I want to be hugged by one particular person.