I feel like I don’t belong, and never did. I see all these people having fun, having friends, going out and I see all my friendships erode and all my relationships fail. I have had this from an early age. I was always the odd one out, the one people picked on, the one everyone had to make fun of, humiliate in front of others in order to belong in the group, the group that I was never part of — merely a tool to hold it together. This behaviour of the group was not a question of intelligence, refinedness or any other higher quality of the members. It was true for all peoples and all ages, all the time, every time. Rarely, if ever, did I find myself part of a group where I felt secure, where I could say with confidence that I belonged.

I felt like my friends were just putting up with me, kind of feeling sad for what I had to go through, and were friends only to pity me. I felt the same with S sometimes, that she pitied me, that I was just a burden to her. I felt the same with the others, too. Not all, but many. This realisation, that the girls I date are just like all the others, that they just pity me, only occurred to me recently, but it rings true, and very-very sad. It’s as if I have no escape, not even in close relationships am I free from all this pressure to belong and to look out for the next blow I’ll get, be it physical (in the early days) or psychological. I feel like I don’t belong, not to this place, not to this planet, not to this society. I’m afraid that I won’t change now, that I’ll be an outsider forever, alone, in my own small universe.

I want to go to a conference but I know S will be there. It’s hard to go this way. I can already see her, in the hallways, haunting me. It will be hard to see her, but the conference is about what she has shown me, what she made me interested in. In a way it’s much of what embodied her: intellectually stimulating conversations about things that matter, long chats about the state of the world and the art to express it. I will try my best to go, but I’ll be fearful to stroll the hallways, and if I see her, I don’t know what will happen, how strong or soft will I act, how much will my voice tremble, and how much will I try to express her what I feel. There is no real point in expressing what I feel: she already knows. But I always think that by saying it again, in a different way, and not necessarily in a verbal way, would make a difference. But it won’t.

This amazing site allows to share memories… Memory lane is long and winding. I remember her, the day when we met in a square at a statue. She was waiting for me in the sun, swimming in the warmth of the sunrays. I remember her peaceful pose, the way she put her hand into mine, the time we passed while I was trying steal some time to kiss her but couldn’t, her friends that were amazing but I couldn’t pay attention to.  I felt the distance she put between herself and me, and I felt sad, but hopeful. It was somehow magical, slow,  weirdly restrained, and amazing.

Quand reviendras-tu ?
Dis ! au moins le sais-tu ?
Que tout le temps qui passe
Ne se rattrape guère…
Que tout le temps perdu
Se rattrape plus…

I was walking with some people around and when starting to walk towards a metro station I realized it was the street of S, just around the corner. Strange how you associate feelings with places, how you get reminded of moments by physical clues. I remember the time I went to visit her, the first time, the flower I brought, the jacket I wore, the clumsiness of my behaviour, the love I wanted to share with her, and her story about her sister and her sickness. Memories give weird rides: beautiful and sad, vivid for some detail (like that we didn’t kiss) and blurry for others. It was a long ride home, thinking of her, the good moments, the bad ones, the happy ones, the strong ones, the soft ones. What a ride it was.

It was a good time with S, though. Short, and maybe uninteresting from her side, but I found her to be amazing, beautiful, and every minute she spent with me was a gift that I felt I didn’t deserve, as If I had stolen it from some god and I was afraid I’ll be judged for my transgression. I felt like a thief of time, a cheat whose lies will be found out and exposed, who doesn’t belong though seemingly nobody notices or nobody cares. I felt like a stranger in a strange land where I have no place to be, where others greater than me belong and I have sneaked in, to take a peek and no longer want to leave. A time of happiness, a time of anguish, a time of fear. It was a beautiful time, when I felt like living a life that I could only dream of, a time of stolen moments with her, stolen kisses of her lips and stolen touches of her body. Things I stole to enrich my life, and, having nothing to give (though I tried giving everything I am), no way to compensate her for her losses. I was a thief and a lie, someone worthless in the land of greats, pretending to be one of them while being empty and useless, and, in the end, I was dealt with accordingly. It was a dream I stole for myself… I wish I had more time there, I wish I could dream on.