ejaculate, and disperse

What can I forgive?

She would tell me stories. They weren't many of them, no variations, nothing. Sometimes it would be the same chapter but I'd listen nonetheless. She'd be telling stories with her eyes, and sometimes I'd understand and other times I wouldn't notice at all.

See, it is rather peculiar what's happened to the girl that never looked in the mirror. She didn't need to understand the urge or address the need. I must find her and show her to you. Until then.

How can I forgive?

She visited me again today, quite reluctantly on her part. I wasn't sure if that can be considered progress. A certain kind of improvement, perhaps. I told her we can't do this anymore, that I no longer want to meet her. After quietly discerning my words and expression, she told me,

I'm sorry I don't know how to control myself.

So I let her in.

There are numerous participants and you must learn to differentiate between them. They might alternate characters or roles. Sometimes they will remain dormant.

I must give her a name. Something we can all refer to in times of need, confusion or discontentment. Shall we call her P then?

P for Pseudo. Pseudo for fake. Fake for unreal.

P visited me again today.

Maybe you should stop talking to me.

But I don't want to do that. Why should I?

But you don't understand what I say.

I don't.

You don't want to try. You've tried that before and that worked out fine, but now you're tired and you don't want to do that anymore. It's fine. It's my fault.

That's not what I mean.

That's what you're saying.

NO.

Justify your negation. Justify.

I'm not blaming you for being you.

Define you.

Difficult.

And? Or? But?

No, there's nothing beyond that.

My dearest, there's always something beyond something.

______________________________________________

Were you envious?

Yes, slightly.

Why?

She was pretty.

So?

She was pretty.

You felt jealous because she had beauty? Beauty that I couldn't even see? Beauty that fades?

Exactly. Beauty that fades. After that, after your so called theory of the beauty fade-out, I will have nothing. And she seems like a nice person.

Appearances.

What?

They deceive.

Obviously. I bet you wouldn't be here if you really knew me.

Why do you say these things?

You tell me don't lie. I try to keep things as honest as possible.

Sigh.

I sincerely believe she's a nice person. And she's pretty. Let's stop talking about her.

You, stop talking about her.

I just did. You're still talking about her.

Shut up.

Don't tell me to shut up.

Okay.

He was charming. Unconventionally charming, of course, P doesn't like goody two-shoes. P said said she would've left everything if everything wasn't everything. He couldn't understand it, smart as he was, he couldn't comprehend that she had things to look after, people to take care of, letters to mail, e-mails to be submitted, books to be read, dinners to be taken promptly, and a mediocre/dull/insignificant life to live. She hadn't the strength to say no so bluntly, so she came to me and asked for help. I say, how can I help you, it's between the two of you alone. She says, you know better than to say things like that to me.

She came to me for help and then she threatened me. What a girl.

I've been writing crap for almost 2 years.

"If you're rotten then I'm odourless."

Some sort of perverted nirvana, I reckon.

Deprive yourself from ideas of pleasure and hedonistic pursuits, and give rise to incessant yearning.

How do you feel?

Angry. Humiliated. Indifferent. Take your pick.

H for horny.

You are?

Bitch. H for horny. I remember now.

Are you?

You are.

I don't understand the rationale behind getting worked up about something that isn't even remotely connected to you.

Translation:

Are you well? She told me you weren't feeling so good. She's worried.

Can you just smile a little?

Reply:

....

And then I suppose my solemn expression assured them that I wouldn't tell on them. To whom anway? The disciplinary teacher? God?

Discipline eludes me and piety, piety does not know me.

Things have reached the point where there are 2 distinct versions. It would be a lot less confusing for people if I remain who they think I am. But I'm much more comfortable with what they don't know.

I haven't the guts nor the strength to tell the truth. No guts at all. It's most probably the first time I did what I wanted to do and dispensed my thoughts privately in such a public place.

I could look at you smile if you want me to (I'd rather not try, but you already know that), and I would. Can you look at me and tell me what's the point of it all?

For a week, I worried them. Puzzled and worried them. I didn't talk as usual, and even as usual is rather unacceptable to most. They sent concerned, pleading messanges to which I have not responded until now.

I will have to walk the corridors and smile again.