I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. but I think I have known it pretty often, too often.
I was in the winter of my life, and the men I met along the road were my only summer. At night I fell asleep with visions of myself, dancing and laughing and crying with them. Three years down the line my memories of them were the only things that sustained me, and my only real happy times.
I belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone. Who had nothing, who wanted everything, with a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about it, and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me.
People are proud of me for not talking to you in so long. I usually just nod along as if I was happy about that. But the truth is that I still think about you every day. I miss you and all I wish for at night is to wake up to a message from you saying that you miss me, too.
And I can’t tell you any of that because we don’t talk. All I can hope for is that you still read my blog.