*
Sometimes I feel as if I had to create lots and lots of faces so that I can move on. So that I can fall in love again. Or something like that. As if I couldn't speak about Roberta with anyone else, as if she weren't mine anymore but a public book, something I already gave away. And in a way it is. I don't want to own her, that's her spark, that's what makes her special, she's not me, she's a joke, she's an ironic ambulatory thing. She's mine and she is me. But her joy is to feel aside, different, permitted to use whatever she needs to be happy. But then she is already a topic on love. It's her sense of humor which makes us fall in love. And I wonder as if I were a fashionable object, what I'm I supposed to come up with next? when there's no Barry or Faustus. That personality thing, which was in a beginning a strategy to revive myself for myself only (more or less), would be now tainted, stained. As an abandonment object. And then I worry about depending, always: I think she wouldn't had been absolutely able to come out without a response, without someone who would get her. So that thing about dependence or independence is relative as dependence itself. Too relative.
But the thing is: Why the hell I'm I thinking and wondering, tired, in such an absolutely exhausted way that I don't have any more moves left? Was she a product of that too? I worry also with the thought that Roberta will be one heavy memory one day. How I'm I supposed to have her inside my repertoire when since now I'm trying to solve what I'll do when love passes away. So sad. So sad to think about it everyday in such worried terms. Maybe It'll just change but won't pass away. I don't want it to end. I don't want my people to end. I don't want to exhaust them out either, neither by expanding them to unthinkable spares of time, nor to choke them when they're just fine. Just fine.
Then, I remember the other reason why I don't write these things anymore (besides a bit of embarrassement): you feel as if you've solved it when it's over. And it's not.
Sometimes I feel as if I had to create lots and lots of faces so that I can move on. So that I can fall in love again. Or something like that. As if I couldn't speak about Roberta with anyone else, as if she weren't mine anymore but a public book, something I already gave away. And in a way it is. I don't want to own her, that's her spark, that's what makes her special, she's not me, she's a joke, she's an ironic ambulatory thing. She's mine and she is me. But her joy is to feel aside, different, permitted to use whatever she needs to be happy. But then she is already a topic on love. It's her sense of humor which makes us fall in love. And I wonder as if I were a fashionable object, what I'm I supposed to come up with next? when there's no Barry or Faustus. That personality thing, which was in a beginning a strategy to revive myself for myself only (more or less), would be now tainted, stained. As an abandonment object. And then I worry about depending, always: I think she wouldn't had been absolutely able to come out without a response, without someone who would get her. So that thing about dependence or independence is relative as dependence itself. Too relative.
But the thing is: Why the hell I'm I thinking and wondering, tired, in such an absolutely exhausted way that I don't have any more moves left? Was she a product of that too? I worry also with the thought that Roberta will be one heavy memory one day. How I'm I supposed to have her inside my repertoire when since now I'm trying to solve what I'll do when love passes away. So sad. So sad to think about it everyday in such worried terms. Maybe It'll just change but won't pass away. I don't want it to end. I don't want my people to end. I don't want to exhaust them out either, neither by expanding them to unthinkable spares of time, nor to choke them when they're just fine. Just fine.
Then, I remember the other reason why I don't write these things anymore (besides a bit of embarrassement): you feel as if you've solved it when it's over. And it's not.
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