Lunatic

 

I know I'm about to lose you forever, and I'm trying to memorize your face. And even though my gaze lingers on the details, I try to take in the whole. Eyes, lips, nose, hair, everything. And so I stare into the blue of your eyes and completely forget about your lips. I can't. I don't really know why I'm trying to remember you. It would be good to forget. I don't really know why I'm writing this. Maybe for the sheer joy I get from it. There's no face at all. I don't think there ever was. I dreamed of you one warm summer. You approached me on the beach and simply asked. I don't know what, because I think I've made up my mind that you even approached me. There's something inside me that prevents me from thinking of you as a fantasy. I'm pathetic, whimpering for a little affection for a shadow. Will I be condemned to loneliness forever? Maybe after you, I'll invent another woman, thinking this one is real. And I'll fall for it again. This is madness. Soon, a few men will burst into this cramped room and put me in a straightjacket. Then they'll lock me in a drawer in the morgue. Like in that movie with Brody. We watched it together, remember. You were sitting next to me, dreamlike. You were so real then. What am I writing? It's unheard of for some emotion to trigger such nonsense. It's nice, although it's tiring. It's still half an hour until midnight, a gang of drunks are shouting outside my window, and the light from my monitor is starting to irritate me. I don't know if this is a story or a column. They invented a term that perfectly describes it: a blog. And whether that's good or bad, I'm writing something like a blog now. I write because something compels me to. Call it what you will. I call it God. And I won't start expanding on this topic because I'm not in the mood. I don't know why, but I'm writing with the intention of posting it on the website. Maybe I'll just clutter it up, but I want someone to leave a comment. Listen, man, it's normal, I feel the same way. I think that would satisfy me. Maybe I'm not crazy just because I have to immerse myself in the world of my fantasies every day... I'm done with these damned ramblings. Authors of storytelling.pl. Write about your emotions more often. It's easier to vent it all anonymously. Now I'm going to bed, and I say goodnight to you