More of the same

Well, how naive of me. When I come to think about it many times I held myself from saying things I wholeheartedly wanted to express in my blog fearing that some of the people concerned with my words would be ever able to read them and find themselves portrayed, I was always afraid of embarrassing them, of betraying me. That's one of the reasons why I haven't written anything about Vitaly to be honest, I can justify myself on account that the feeling of emptiness and estrangement plus strangeness that stems from the whole idyll precludes me from the natural ability of writing. I was naive enough to think that people would be ever interesting in reading the dreams and fables of a 21 years old idiot, but maybe I'm wrong. Who is to know these things? If most of these people have actually read it I think I should start feeling naked, woed and exposed to their imaginary eyes, that follow me all through my life as an endless sequence of betrayals.

But there're a few things I can say, despite myself. I definitely love this guy, not with a desperate love that breaks all the rules of cognition and understanding, but rather full with a void of understanding. Sure. I know it doesn't make sense at all. He achieved quite a few purposes in my life, unknowingly. It's funny to think the role other peoples play in our lives, it's almost uncanny. Through Vitaly I avenged my honour for once at all, I avenged myself and destroyed that irrational myth the journalist and me built together with his crueltly on my very own pain for all this time. He's hurting now and I know it, and I wonder if he'll ever address me again because I know I've broken a chain of events that led us through it, a broken of events that exposed my weaknesses in their highest pathos and portrayed me as a 21st century Antigone. In the other hand it's funny because V. loves me too, but his problem is that he doesn't want to, me in the other want so desperately want to love him, oh well! It's so pathetic for someone like me writing this shit. But after all I still go to meetings of Zionist political groups, engage myself in philosophical conversations lasting for hours and hours with my grandma Chaya and send used books with long dedicatory explanations to someone who despite himself refuses to address me. But I no longer care, I'm contemptuously loyal, my fidelity to him is unmovable, and it is not the kind of fidelity between husband and wife or between boyfriend and boyfriend, because I can feel him and I feel him fall too, I feel him guilty too. He is just too young to understand that fidelity isn't counted by the number of erotic endeavour that postmodern men engage themselves with anonymous men. The flesh and the soul have different needs, and I just don't need to know more about this. He's beautiful, young, appealing. I'm in the other hand no less beautiful, yet dark and sometimes irreversibly dreadful, and I ain't no longer young at least in that respect. I'm not the kind of look-for-a-type-of-man-your-dreams-told-you-about. But then again I'm an intellectual, one of those already forlorn and forgotten intellectuals of Jerusalem. He could never understand that, yet it doesn't help my feeling for wanting him even when knowing he already might want others, simpler ones, heavier ones... to inflate his ego and his self-loathing pity. As if I weren't there ever. The pain doesn't subdue these days but I find ways around it, around his silence, around my own silence. My soul-to-soul fidelity is still unmovable.

He can hide in the other end of the screen, but he can't hide from my soul. That poisonous bitch that has damaged so many unknowledgeable souls in her endeavours. After all there's nothing I have to fear. I betrayed my country several times, my parents and my wealth. Betrayed the academy and turned my back on those friends I had for a lifetime. Each and every one of them remembers me possibly quite often, and they remember those books and those poems, those place and those careers I pushed them into. The unbearable ode. Perhaps suffering is the real nature of men. It's his fault after all, he causes himself to suffer, and makes me suffer too. And the world is content. In any case it's irrelevant at this very point, how long does it take to forget a friend? To really forget? Maybe three or four lives, the mind is a strange apparatus. I read in the news last week a guy age 18 and another guy age 19 were hung publicly in Iran, after being held in prison for a year and having been given 228 whippings. That shouldn't surprise a western reader. The only difference is that they were killed for being homosexuals, for loving each other and for letting it continue up to the point of sexual intercourse. Yet here we're, V. in America, A. in Israel. Busy with metaphysical issues to be or not to be. Ha! In someway I wish many people would die, so we could learn a lesson. But as history takes its course our memory grows shorter and shorter. No one cares about anything but himself, and that includes god. Funny, I avenged myself to one of the persons I love the most with a person who loves me but doesn't want to, therefore prefers to ignore me because it's easier yet being unsmart enough to leave traces of his steps as for me to realize the sad state of affairs. Well, one thing is clear. I won't sit home and wait for a lifetime, no one will. And no one dies of love, except in Russian novels.

Who will regret all this? NO ONE.

My sleeping pills are working just fine, sleeping at least twelve hours a day, but my mind doesn't sleep, my cravings never stop and my desires just grow stronger. Coward, that's the word. Coward. I know this is an electronic blog, but it's MY electronic blog, and I'm constitutionally entitled to write anything I want, you like it or not. Coward.