Ptitchitza u niskom letu

Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless...

I left eight voicemails to Maria today. There must have been hundreds of them since October, since she's no longer a part of my life. She must have changed the SIM card or put it on divert, because I never hear back from her.

It's like writing letters to G_d.

What else do I have? Almost every place I know in Rotterdam, I've been there with her.

Perhaps I should empty my apartment of absolutely everything, except the few proofs of her existance: the blue dolphin and the flower she cut out of wood and painted, her belt missing a half of eagle's wings on the buckle, her toothbrush, the prints of her palms on the wall, the beer coasters she would write or draw something explaining something to me or loosing herself in fantasy of the beautiful inner child she has... and then in the absolutely voidness, the emptiness of it, perhaps then I'd push the crack in my "glass of life" to extreme and rid myself of her or rid myself, full stop.

I would sometimes watch her sleep beside me, the beautiful angel so at peace with herself, lying right next to me, the beautiful apparition breathing in and out, the inspiration for life.

G_d helps you if you help yourself, but I'm still helpless. She gives me no release. "I want to make you hate me", she said once, but I can't. I just hate myself, for not finding the magic she needed.

Writing letters to G_d.