I was thinking about a lot of things that day. Contemplating whether or not I was in love. That, because of the nausciating feeling I had since two days. And maybe because I couldn’t stop thinking about her, or her. Or well, her. I tend and try to forget about the blondes, the brunettes, maybe even the reds. But it’s always easier to try than to actually do. Because every time one of them crosses your mind, you relive the moments of well, let’s say, joy. Ultimate happiness. The never-ending point of freedom I’d like to call, an orgasm. It’s the scent of a woman, as sang by many artists. It lingers around you, all day long, until you wake up with it again. It’s her wit, her touch, her lips that make kissing such a hell of lot easier. It’s her soft skin against yours, it’s her hands that make you crave for more. It’s just her. In maybe the purest of forms. It’s things I don’t want to think about when I’m somewhere around my parents, but things I can’t help to think. It’s just how the mind works, or at least, my mind works. On my right side are a few recent files stashed, files containing lots of memories. Memories of you, including a few threats. Like it’s my goddamn death sentence: you. Even at times you don’t know it, you’re killing me. Slower every time, different and far beyond intended. You wanted to. You wanted to kill me, with every word that came out of your mouth, every step you took towards me than what away from me, every breath you took around me, was meant to. You didn’t want me. You wanted to feel loved. You’re in love with being in love. It’s somewhat not really working, the internet is slow. My typing even more. Most of all, it looks bad. It’s just random venting. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I could just watch dumb, numbing series without actually thinking about it afterwards. I wish my mind wasn’t Cali fornicated right now. Even though I know it’s just a reflection of who I am, a dirty old bastard. But then a few plus twenty years younger and with the fe- placed in front of male. No, I’m not a slut. Nor a hooker. I don’t do things for money, I do them because I want to. Because I like doing those things. I like always getting what I want, I like beautiful women waking up beside me. I like giving, but I love to take. I seem to love breaking hearts, it doesn’t actually bother me afterwards, even though I say it does, it don’t. I don’t feel sad, because I went through exactly the same. Maybe I feel bad though, bad for the girls who’s heart is going to be broken because I broke yours like your broke mine. It’s been one day now. A few people called, and you sent me text messages. You reply awfully quick, and when you don’t I tend to get a little insecure. I think that’s because you’re the first person in a long time that actually makes me want your attention. Yesterday I rode my bike around the town, the villages connecting each other to a soon to be metro pole of the north. I thought about how people change and plans get changed. But in the end, everything changes but you. You’ll always stay the same to me. Or at least in my mind you’ll always stay the same to me, you never change. Your hair never goes from dark to blonde. You’ll never wake up to anyone else but me. But well, you kind of did. I wish you had left already. I wish I didn’t catch glimpses of you, of your work, your family, of us. I watch the airplanes rise, I watch them fall. Like I will watch yours, that last Friday of January. I’ll watch that big white thing rise from the ground, I think I see your face, which of course I don’t and I’ll wave you goodbye. It will be the last time I’ll ever stand there, on that specific rooftop. I won’t say hello to your parents, nor your sisters and certainly even not to your girlfriend. Perhaps I’ll write you a song, scribbled down on an old piece of paper. I’ll take tiny little sips from my coffee so that the chance of staying in that moment longer will increase. I don’t know what it was I was trying to find. I don’t know what it is I am trying to find. I’ve lost my objectivity quite a long time ago, and I don’t know if I will ever make it. Make it through tomorrow, through today or through this year. I know I’m lucky for just being here, lucky for having all the things I have. I know I will rise and fall. And that people will watch me, perhaps writing and sipping from their coffee. I also know I will not be the next William Faulkner, Salinger or Kerouac. I don’t know, for the love of God, why I’m writing something stupid in retarded English. I guess I just felt like a writer tonight. I guess that all the things I want to say about you don’t matter anymore. And maybe this piece is a reflection on that specific subject, you. Amen.