Today I woke up with a dream of being told to pack my stuff and leave A. We were in my parent’s old apartment, she was in one room, her boyfriend was watching TV in the living room, and I was told to pack my stuff from another room. It was devastating. All the feelings of her telling me it’s over came back to me, I was afraid and on the cusp of crying. Suddenly I felt alone, stranded with all these feelings of deep love, rejected. Now, that I woke up from the dream, I feel the same — afraid, alone, stranded, having lost the one I love. It’s been so many years, almost 4 years, in fact. But it still haunts me. Day after night after day. I miss you so much, A.

ahogy minduntalan elhatározom hogy más leszek
nem tudom milyen más
csak nem ilyen
de már tudom hogy
nem leszek más

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

By Christina Rossetti

I read her initials in the book she gave me and I wonder. Why me? What was so interesting about me 3 years ago at that conference that she remembered? I was in the lowest of the lows back then. I remember talking with her, and I found her inspiring and I wished I could date her but I was sure she wasn’t interested. I have to say, she made me realize that maybe there is some value in here, that maybe there is a point to all of this. I remember talking with her, about her work and I even mentioned how I’d like her advice, but then I got afraid and left. It was a sad day, as always back then. But I still don’t know why me and now I feel like an impostor. I’ll go with it, but it feels strange. I’ll see. It will be good to spend time with you, R.

Sometimes I think I have felt everything I’m ever gonna feel. And from here on out, I’m not gonna feel anything new. Just lesser versions of what I’ve already felt. (“Her”, Spike Jonze, 2013)

I still dream of AP, and HQ (and MK of all people). What an idiot I am. And how useless it all is. Maybe I have felt everything I will every feel. What’s the point?

Me.

I was watching an interview with Phoebe Waller-Bridge, about Fleabag, and why her character can’t tell to the audience about her pain in the final episode of the first series. She tells to a random taxi driver instead, the audience almost incidentally present, about her greatest worry, about her deepest sadness. When Phoebe said that, in the interview, I realized — that’s what I did when I told AP about having accepted to go for an interview in London. I didn’t tell it to her, I told it to her friend, AP being only incidentally present. Because I couldn’t tell it to her, I didn’t have the courage, I was too afraid, I was terrified of what it meant. That she will leave and I will leave too, because I couldn’t live in Berlin anymore without her. Everything here reminded me of her. Everything still does. All the parks and all the bars and all the museums, I am walking around and I see us, our times, her, me, together.

I just kept hoping, I just kept hoping
The way would become clear
I spent all this time tryna play nice and
Fight my way here

See, I’ve been having me a real hard time
But it feels so nice to know I’m gonna be alright

I watched Fleabag and the final scene made me remember the last time I heard someone tell me they love me. I wish I had reconsidered then. Catie really meant it, I know, and I was just there, not realizing how far she has come to meet me halfway. How broken I was and how she helped me put myself back together. What an amazing time it was, how gentle and caring she was. How far we have come. I miss her, and I wish she was here again. I’d love to cry in her arms.

An honorable human relationship — that is, one in which two people have the right to use the word “love” — is a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying to both persons involved, a process of refining the truths they can tell each other. (Adrienne Rich)

The best part of having been with you is that I may one day wake up, having dreamed of being with you again. I miss your mussels, you made them so well. And I miss the smell of your hair in the morning. I miss the everyday.

It’s hard hearing that you found someone. I wish you had found me. It feels as if I let you go. I didn’t tell you how much I loved you. I just let you slip through my fingers. I didn’t tell you how much you meant to me, how much I had missed you. I didn’t beg and I didn’t scream, I just let you slip through and now I wish I had, I wish I had told you and I wish I had screamed, I wish I was back there telling you how awful it is to let you go, how painful and how empty it makes me feel. And how hollow, how dark.

In my dream you smiled, knowingly, mischievously, kindly, at me, while I was trying to chat up other women. I felt ashamed but I also felt the warmth of your heart, that you meant well and that you wanted the best for me. I later talked to you and it made me happy.

It was magnificent to see you. You wore the same outfit you did when I last saw you in London in that hot summer (oh, how I remember the first day, us going to the side of that pond to lie down). Four short days of making love to you. Then you leaving, at the airport, talking at the counter, me taking a picture of you. I still have that photo. You wore a Levi’s jacket and a red scarf and you had dark round hair, a beautiful long black skirt and those white sneakers you always wore. How amazing you were. And you were there with me in my dream, dressed just like that. I miss you.