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ovdje sam. ne sasvim dobro, ne loše. raskorak ipak nije stav. "Imam 23 godine i svijet je pretežak na plećima koja su tvorevina u iznucanom kaputu." napisala sam, o kako nisam imala pojma. sad jedva izvlačim riječi iz sebe. "tekst je privinut za mene u mjeri da ga ne mogu izraziti bez da se ozlijedim." ovo je grozno za napisati i pomisliti pa se hajmo praviti da nije vidljivo: umorna sam od sebe kakvog smisla to ima? jako mi se jede već tjednima sladoled i ne jedem ga jer bih izgubila tu čežnju za njim. danas sam čekajući tramvaj pored slastičarnice zamalo kupila jedan, ali sam odoljela porivu i dobila što točno? malo praznog mjesta. ovo možete pročitati, a i ne morate, to je da ne tražim uvijek i za one koji će ipak pročitati i zavoljeti koliko i ja.. zapravo zavoljeti ženu o kojoj on piše. blog je mrtav, solipsistic.org. An Obituary for Who It was there that we first met, at a table: I seated, you standing. You spoke to the other, not I, though I hung myself upon your words. You were so deathly beautiful. Years passed, I suppose. It was there: the first time we met—again—for the first time again in that place. At that place which was not our home: we were foreign, not to each other but to placement. I was threatened, a predeterminate. You were so beautiful, and so damaged. We faced each other. We looked upon ourselves through ourselves. We never met for a first time again, instead we were met with. The words you spoke to me as we manufactured evenings, or was it you who created alone? It could not be: it was coursing. Your truthfulness, that honesty, your curse: when it was simply We, when it was a togetherness perpetually rifting. You were so beautiful and kind, when kindness was not ample. Your heroin, my amphetamine, our cocaine daybreaks. You were never mine completely. I was yours through adoption. I wore that. I wish I had that still. I will never forget its painful scent. Climbing through ceilings to settle in hidden attic seclusion. When I ran to flee: when my patience became a distortion: when waiting hurt too much. And now I am found weeping obscenely, for want of when you were so near but never close. You did not know of the ode which was applied. I was not cognizant of existence until it was far too late to present it, or that is what I thought. Now it will forever be too late, and forever be useless. You were my inspiration for continuance then, for furtherance then, when I had nothing but you. And when I had not you, I had adoration's visage and remembrance. You were brilliance, you were so beautiful. My face bears the scar as a result of you. Your body bore the marks I stenciled upon you. Your corpse must be so beautiful. I never did not dream of you, and now I can do nothing but silently miss you: a quiet horror of sorrow. I can only hope that you suddenly had too much as a result of trying, and that you did not suffer for endless lack of… You were so beautiful. To me. |
