Posts in adminNatasha
I’ve always been stumped by the question, "How are you?" Or, for that matter, "How’s it going?"
You forgot how to live, and you’d answer, “Nothing much.”
I usually say, “Good” or “Great!” Or sometimes, I have this passphrase: “Awesome!” which, of course, doesn’t really capture the vast variety of my existence. However, it’s said that those who go into too much detail when asked, “How’s it going?” risk being labeled as boring, so I won’t go into a deep dive about what's going on in my mind, subconscious, and so on.
I meet them on my way. Worlds fly past me — parallel, not perpendicular. We do not intersect with them. It's me who is ready to be flexible and meet. They are also ready to meet, but they don’t know how to part. They are afraid of parting. That’s why they never meet. With me.
You know, I don’t always behave “properly.” Who wrote these rules? And why do I hear that “my love” isn’t the way it’s supposed to be?
I agree that it's important to take into account the rules established within the "husband-wife" system (oops, got a bit complicated there, let's simplify). If it's established that "left" is just as natural as "right," then no complaints are accepted.
Men often complain that there are no real women left these days.
Women, in turn, complain that there are no real men anymore.
And yet both men and women might very well be "real" within the framework of their own gender (awkward wording, perhaps, but at least the meaning is clear).
I long for closeness.
For understanding each other with half a word —
when I say only a fragment of a thought, and HE picks it up and answers — also with a fragment — and I understand.
Sometimes, in a surprising way, you start to understand the meaning of songs that have long been sung for you. Only during their life did their meaning somehow slip away from you. Because of a lack of life experience.
One day, after parting, still experiencing the remnants of the fading love… Cherishing glimpses of magical memories, like the warm light of the last rays of the sun in September… Rising on the wave of sensations again and again, warming oneself with the fragments of sensory memories of touches…
He came to me with that same cold gaze he had the day we parted. And on the very last day, too.
I became scared. He had brought an old man with him. In the old man's hands was a blue plastic chest. The old man intended to gather everything valuable in my home into that chest.
He had brought the old man to rob me.
There are words that must be said. You part ways with a person, but inside you live a couple of phrases that will torment you until you release them. It’s not necessarily that the person they’re meant for should hear them…