My friend A. again. The girl with too much heart and genital, but to little head. Remote control of blood hormones, that only come alive when the Sun sleeps, she roams through the night feverish. Because she can’t have him. The one who turns around the stomach it, every time, when she thinks of him. If she suspects that he’s not phoning, because he is with her, the woman he calls his girlfriend. Which has no name and no face, which is a spirit, you can not see, but feel. Every time when A. feels his lips on her own body, her thighs, on the mouth.
“I loathe people, relations with feet are”, she said. For two months, she beats her own with clenched fists in the face. Because when it comes in the next morning to go home, she lies down in the warm bed. A photo from the last vacation hangs over the pillow. Her own mind keeps them in the arm and pushes her hand. The image is faded, but the tack is still deep in the wall.
“I love him”, she says again. Stresses that the one is not the other, that both can exist at the same time. Love and passion. Just separated from each other. At home, feelings in the world waiting for cold kisses. “I need both”, she cries. Because she knows that she lie to themselves. Your heart out if she thinks on the forbidden, the secret determines their day. Longing looks on the phone out of the window. Perhaps it is because somewhere, maybe he is, maybe he wants. But what does she want? Love or passion? Everyday life or adventure?
“I don’t think about it, this is our dream, our illusion”, explains A. and contains in wrinkles is located. this moist forehead, “I will not part with me, I want children by him. But now, in this moment, it is enough me not” she’s still so young, so wild and thirsty. And then he, he wants to get married soon and yet fear that what comes came. Before prison, which shredded a heart if it decides to leave. The final is what makes it impossible for any devotion. The rules of the game and all the imposed limits stifle the butterflies in your stomach and shape it to stones.
“What we know can anyone harm”, A reply when I ask them about their conscience. And again, she knows that she’s lying. As a part of it is the lie underlying and percolates slowly towards hell. Hang your heart not to people, hums on the way to the bar. For taking a step backwards, it’s too late. Denial is futile. A time is no time, but guys you too much. There is an old piece of paper on the floor. “Choose”, there is written in big letters. But there is more than one way, more than A or B, more than right and wrong.
Like you would go ahead and wait what happens. The rest is then determined by all alone and time heals all wounds. But every game has a prelude, each reaction needs a trigger, each pop dynamite, love A. goes wrong anything, just who exactly? Is it your relationship, which goes to the floor? Your friend who confesses error and cutting friends gaping wounds in the gut with every word? Did you lose your heart to the boy with the spirit of the House, are afraid of all the consequences? Did you even lose grip and you’re looking for the great love, just after a tree branch, which supports you if you break up? Or do you love unconditionally and real, but feel the fear that is certainty that everything eventually ends? You are so addicted to destruction and ruin what threatens you to hurt? Who are you, A. What do you want, A.?
As always your answer is: don’t kill what’s not yours.