Just Maybe Forse Ciao

I do want to feed the obsession. I do want to see whether it makes sense to pack up and leave. Or to pack up and go to him, uninvited.  I do want to remember this feeling  of rejection  that was not born from proper rejection. I do want to remember how does it feel for me to feel rejected in the future this time,  within something that has nothing but an abstract virtual present and no past.  And I do want to feed this whatever you call it love or obsession or curiosity or mystery or affection or whatever you call it. And what if I snap every once in a while what is the problem, I wonder,  If I lose my head.  I do want to see this through  without him leaving halfway through it with my usual unruly planning with my exceeding requests that - unmet - put me back to my place because that is rejection too. I do want to understand why people get in easily, he got in easily,  but I never get in pe...

Do you remember when I used to call just because I could, without thinking twice? And do you remember when I used to give meaning to dates and just celebrate that? And it wasn't that long ago.  But he picked up the phone.  And he celebrated too. Now, in the general mess of feelings finally voiced and finally free - not caged anymore underneath the usual pretence that Anna doesn't fall in love, Anna doesn't want to love, Anna cannot possibly love - now, in the general mess of feelings out in the open, spontaneity was murdered.  Quite unfair, as it was really a beautiful thing to be spontaneous, one of the few beautiful things I managed to show of me.  And now I count the hours, I measure the absence, I let my usual fear of intruding win. I don't want to intrude, even if he doesn't say it, I am.  With this giant heart of mine, that doesn't feel like shrinking, and my plans, my expectations, my projections of what all, we, could be. Eve...

The fine line between friendship and love is about opening doors that open other doors that won't be allowed to be closed any time soon. The number of doors to open in love is infinite.  It's never about me, the rejection I suffer, but it is always about me, the rejection voiced by others to me. It's never about me but it is always about me, as I still am left to wonder what's wrong with me and what I show of myself to those I wish could see the best of me.  What was it this time, a part of me can wonder, what was my fatal error, that moment that could have opened slowly slowly that door, and that I missed. That door that instead I am now looking at, defenceless and silent, as it always will be closed, he didn't say it, but he meant it.  And the question remains, how do you close doors that you yourself were so surprised to open?  How do you do it this time, this time that it's so clear, so clean, such an unproblematic rejection, without secon...

It's quite sad, actually, and at the same time very difficult to accept, to realise that I did not mean much after all, that the daily exchange of my thoughts, my laughter, my curses of the world, my spirit, my wit, my pictures, my intimacy, my shared routine, did not mean much, could be thrown away, or better yet replaced with someone else's, or worse, was just one among many others, nothing much and nothing special.  It's quite sad, actually, and at the same time very easy to see, that I was not special, just a tiny bit special as I wished to be, as I thought I could be, and that there is no beauty to observe and no thoughts of me to preserve.  That I am not missed, that I am easy to erase, that I am not the one they wish to keep closer, they fight to keep closer, that I did not leave a mark, that the same way I enter lives - intruding - I exit - sneaking out.  For all the noise I think I make, for all the attempts to share emotions and visions ...

You wake up in the morning after you collapsed in bed yesterday due to the fatigue that does not seem to abandon you these days, you wake up and think of that trip to New York you will not plan. And the trip to the mountains and the list of places to see you made in London to be shared with him. The pictures you could take and send him, the ones he could take and send you. And all the rest you said you'd do and won't do, you'd show him and you won't, he'd show you and he won't. The NYE message you won't send after all. It's a very small, almost insignificant death, the death of the future.  You wake up to feel an unusual clarity this morning, as you hate confusion, you like precision, don't you. The clarity of conclusion, of the emptiness that comes after conclusion. The void is clear after all. And it's sad really, that for every story, you will remember just its end and what you did not do.  And yet, there are things, memories of things ...

Telling the truth and breaking your heart a little bit.  Not too much, not too deep. You don't let it become too much or too deep anymore. You learned. You learned, after all, when is the right time to tell the truth, break your heart a little bit and thus avoid the complete emotional disaster you normally are.  And yet, sometimes, you still allow yourself that tiny bit of hope, which you killed a while ago now. Why it comes back, you don't know.  That tiny bit of hope for the relativity of telling the truth, that yes, it might break your heart a little bit, but maybe, just maybe will push for a different result. Maybe this time you will be surprised. Maybe something unexpected will happen. Maybe, this time, the truth you are telling is only a stepping stone. Maybe he won't let you walk away. Maybe, after all, he is different than all the others. Or maybe, this time, you won't cry. Maybe, this time, you won't feel so very alone in wha...

My dear,  There will be time, they say, to meet the people you are supposed to meet and the people you will meet will make you the best you can be.  My dear,  there will be time to fall in love and do it all. You and I. Or alone, you say. It's not a big deal, you say.  There will be time not to feel rejected, as I always feel, and one day there will be time to feel I am almost normal.  There will be time to write love letters, or love texts even, when I wake up and when I sleep, to utter words or even share thoughts and laugh. There will be time to laugh, they say, together. With someone. There will be time. For you to laugh without me. And now, there is no time, when the letters I write do not speak of love, but rather seek comprehension, the most basic trait of communication.  There is no time to plan trips that you do not want to do with me, that you do not want to plan either, that you plan for yourself or with someon...