Copy and paste from paper to blog
It's good not to have my boss around, because I get to do my job in a more relaxed attitude. But I also get easily bored, so I end up writing and writing and writing without having much to say...
This is something I wrote on my paper diary. It makes sense to put it here to get yet a clearer idea of what I'm going through with the B&S guy thing.
Written on the evening of September, 25th.
I'm listening to soothing classical music: the air on a G string by Bach, one of my very favourite.
And I'm daydreaming again.
Is it going to end, I ask myself? Or am I just heading towards self-destruction the short span of a couple of months? Because in December I guess I'll end the cycle of back and shoulder training, feeling physically well and with (hopefully) less tension, but what about my heart?
All these cramps that make me almost bend in two when they hit me, suddenly, treacherous blades across my stomach, even when I'm not thinking about him.
Was this something I needed, I looked for, unconsciously? Haven't I learnt the lesson yet?
Loving is pain, endless, burning, undeletable and unforgettable.
Daydreaming is also to be avoided.
[...]
I am allowed a few fantasies over a non-existent person who may see something good in me, something to love, I am allowed this, to lull me into sleep. But to fantasise on a real person, someone out there, someone with a real life, now that's dangerous.
Because how can he love me, how can he ever like me, what good can he find in me, what part of my body, of my self, can he be attracted to?
I am ordinary, banal, a face lost in the crowd, a voice that's easily forgotten.
I am no great love of anybody's life, and I will never be, I should just give these fantasies up, right now.
Instead I was reading my blog, today, reading my perfect story of how he would kiss me the first time, and at the same time I was thinking that I had imagined it too far in time, I wanted it to happen now, I am restless, I want to see him now, talk, take his hand, be kissed.
When he took my hand during the session he said "What cold hands!" and we smiled; we talked about swimming and he was shocked when I told him about my record at the marathon, I felt as if he was putting me on a scale, and I was proud to show off for once, and then he said he wanted to go back to swim too, was I wrong when I took that for a hint of some kind, although I cannot classify it?
My mind is playing these subtle, sly tricks on me, and I am torn between what I think and feel, and what I know is the truth, which is that he is not interested in me, like everybody else.
I should simply be content for the warm touch of his hands when he helps me through the session: I cannot recall the last time a boy took my hand.
But I cannot stop thinking about it, dreaming about it, talking about it [...], and I was right when I told Luisa that this is dangerous because it's too close to the feeling I had for HIM, the one who must not be named without sensing the missing piece of my heart that has gone with him, like feeling the pain in an arm that has been cut off.
[...] This is basically my best form of self-inflicted torture: seeing the object of my desire, being painfully close to him without touching him or telling him anything, just looking at him and at the same time projecting my imaginary me at his side, building up fragment after fragment of a beautiful story of love, and all the while watching him going away from me, finding a partner, a life-long companion that is not going to be me.
I am a true masochist.
[...]
This is something I wrote on my paper diary. It makes sense to put it here to get yet a clearer idea of what I'm going through with the B&S guy thing.
Written on the evening of September, 25th.
I'm listening to soothing classical music: the air on a G string by Bach, one of my very favourite.
And I'm daydreaming again.
Is it going to end, I ask myself? Or am I just heading towards self-destruction the short span of a couple of months? Because in December I guess I'll end the cycle of back and shoulder training, feeling physically well and with (hopefully) less tension, but what about my heart?
All these cramps that make me almost bend in two when they hit me, suddenly, treacherous blades across my stomach, even when I'm not thinking about him.
Was this something I needed, I looked for, unconsciously? Haven't I learnt the lesson yet?
Loving is pain, endless, burning, undeletable and unforgettable.
Daydreaming is also to be avoided.
[...]
I am allowed a few fantasies over a non-existent person who may see something good in me, something to love, I am allowed this, to lull me into sleep. But to fantasise on a real person, someone out there, someone with a real life, now that's dangerous.
Because how can he love me, how can he ever like me, what good can he find in me, what part of my body, of my self, can he be attracted to?
I am ordinary, banal, a face lost in the crowd, a voice that's easily forgotten.
I am no great love of anybody's life, and I will never be, I should just give these fantasies up, right now.
Instead I was reading my blog, today, reading my perfect story of how he would kiss me the first time, and at the same time I was thinking that I had imagined it too far in time, I wanted it to happen now, I am restless, I want to see him now, talk, take his hand, be kissed.
When he took my hand during the session he said "What cold hands!" and we smiled; we talked about swimming and he was shocked when I told him about my record at the marathon, I felt as if he was putting me on a scale, and I was proud to show off for once, and then he said he wanted to go back to swim too, was I wrong when I took that for a hint of some kind, although I cannot classify it?
My mind is playing these subtle, sly tricks on me, and I am torn between what I think and feel, and what I know is the truth, which is that he is not interested in me, like everybody else.
I should simply be content for the warm touch of his hands when he helps me through the session: I cannot recall the last time a boy took my hand.
But I cannot stop thinking about it, dreaming about it, talking about it [...], and I was right when I told Luisa that this is dangerous because it's too close to the feeling I had for HIM, the one who must not be named without sensing the missing piece of my heart that has gone with him, like feeling the pain in an arm that has been cut off.
[...] This is basically my best form of self-inflicted torture: seeing the object of my desire, being painfully close to him without touching him or telling him anything, just looking at him and at the same time projecting my imaginary me at his side, building up fragment after fragment of a beautiful story of love, and all the while watching him going away from me, finding a partner, a life-long companion that is not going to be me.
I am a true masochist.
[...]
posted by Peggy @ 4:34 PM
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