I got a typewriter to write a letter to S. It’s a letter of sorrow, a letter of joy. The joy of her having spent time with me, and the sorrow of loosing her. I re-read some of our old conversations where she seems to avoid saying something in every letter… In this letter I avoided nothing, and it’s good to be honest but I fear it’s not really new and it’ll just come off as something crazy. Maybe I am crazy, maybe we all are. I remember this quote I sent her in one of my very first emails: “We are fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance”. It’s a Japanese saying. I think we ought to be dancing, even when the music is over and the band is packing up. That’s especially when we should dance. When it’s too late and there is nobody to dance for but ourselves.

The other letter I wrote to K. I never quite thanked for for all she did for me. I never asked for her forgiveness for all the stupid things I did — mostly of letting her slip by, not caring for a reason I still don’t understand. I wasn’t tired, and I was interested — it happened in a way that made no sense. Maybe it’s not supposed to make any sense, maybe it’s all just feelings that cannot be expressed in any way. We try and we fail. Maybe this time, I managed to express myself well in both letters. Probably not.

I met E in a bar with my friends, as we usually are, hanging out, passing time. I invited her to a club and sometime later we went. Lately, a lot of affection has gathered up in me, and I gave all of it to her, and she didn’t mind, but didn’t care about it, either. It was just me, my feelings and her, three distinct entities in the vastness of space and time, floating through like silent globs of light, with seemingly no effect on one another. I gave her all the affection I wanted to give others, and she didn’t care but sometimes it felt as if something broke in her, as if things were different than what she pretended them to be. But then we were back again, in our own little worlds with the affection just floating, as if its energy was from another star, not from us, sometimes shining white-hot, sometimes fading like the moon when clouds fog our view and then again it was there but it was blinding and too much. Then she went home and I was stuck with this bright orb and tried to take it home with me, but I couldn’t and it was just there in the morning glowing and I was tired and lonely.

Today I met her again, the affection was still there, I couldn’t and wouldn’t control it, but there were others and they came and talked and I got tired and lonely. So I faded away the only way I knew by trying to be harsh and insensitive and I thought it will be fine but I still felt the same way and I told her I’ll miss her and I will. She could give so much more but doesn’t want to for reasons that are to remain forever mysterious and lonely and strong, as one is when feelings are not shared. Vulnerability is hard and can’t be forced…

I traveled to another city in another country, where for a brief moment, I met C. I had a terrible time that day, everything that could go wrong did go wrong.  She was eating ice cream in a corner when I first saw her — short, tender and attentive, with a small scar, almost like a pendant on a thin, invisible necklace. I sat down at the bar, drank a couple of drinks and talked with her. We ended up going to eat out together.

At first I thought it’ll be a fun time, nothing very notable, maybe we’ll make out, spend some time together. Something, however, dawned on me when I first held her close to me. Maybe it was the way we were laughing so much together, or how bright and fun she was, or her quiet but vivid way of being. I remember telling her things that I tell few and I remember feeling in a way that I haven’t felt for a long while — simply worthy of existing. It was good holding her and being affectionate towards her. She was really good to me and enjoyed what I had to give — something that I can really value.

This wonderful experience only remains as pieces of memories now, faded and partially forgotten, like something that we find in an old drawer and it brings back more of a feeling than something concrete. I can’t see her in my mind, but I remember the affection I gave and the affection she gave, and it feels good.

Now he’s gone I don’t know why
Until this day, sometimes I cry
He didn’t even say goodbye
He didn’t take the time to lie

I remember an oddly specific dream: the day I met S, at night when I went to bed I could barely sleep. I dreamed that we are together strolling on a sidewalk, she leaves me behind on a corner and never looks back. The next day, in bed, I told her about this dream.

This reminds me of K, who once wrote me that one night she saw two things in her dreams: “The one I saw about you, is that you aren’t here to stay. The one I saw about me, is that I will give you all of me.”

Yesterday night I dreamt of S. We were outside of an abandoned industrial site where we ran into one another. It was a long-forgotten place full of mystery and opportunity, the kind of place that has a history, a certain charm and some sadness in the broken, graffitied-over walls. I was curious in a soft way about what has happened to her. It made me happy to hear about her and sad that we were no longer together. A form of emptiness overcame me, as if I were a shell of myself and no more.

Lately, I often also daydream about her. I wish I could tell her how much I miss her and how lovely I think she is. I often remember the sweet moments we had, like when she woke me up with a kiss, slept while hugging me, or jumped on me when she found me at a party. Small, maybe inconsequential things, yet to me they convey a form of caring that I’ve had very little of lately. I feel that the little time we spent together has made worthwhile the long stretches of time I spend struggling with life.

I’m re-listening to an artist’s songs that I first heard about a decade ago, and the lyrics “it’s easier to dream with you than to be awake alone or with someone else” ring in my head. He apparently has been in a drug-induced state for the past decade, and though I haven’t been, the texts speak to me. I have given it some thought, and it’s easy to find fun, or intelligent women, or even women who care about me. It’s just really hard to find someone amazing. Someone who takes you to places that you haven’t been and yet you feel safe and at home there. Someone you feel like you could wake up next to every day — and who actually wants to wake up with you every day.

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.