I used to love two.
After those two, all the loves are jokes.
One of them disappeared with her dad’s bike and the kite she was flying.
I wrote a long letter to the other one.
She did not understand.
Even if she understood, she would not take it.
She does not love me, by nature, in any universe.
Using time to forget, is a waste.
Most of the stories, characters and roles can be easily forgot.
Not the feeling.
It is an inreversiable wrinkle grown in your heart.
The feeling is upon an image, an image in the past, an image that has long gone.
People do change.
Trying to forget something that can never be retrieved, is a waste.
For a long time I find myself not falling in love with the person, but the feeling.
I love the status of loving a girl and being loved back. Not the girl, but the status.
I love the status of pretending to love a girl so so much that I can die for her.
Illusion, is not simply defined by its definition. It is, sometimes, a medicine for people like me.
Hater. Loner. Silently crazy and ordinary as any ordinary who you can imagine.
Delightful pictures, we call them fantasy; Obnoxious lies, we call them self-deception.
A self-centered lier decepts himself. Fair trade.
For a long time I find myself not falling in love with the person, but the feeling.
You can never fix the past.
You can never fix a person, who loves only subjective feelings but no objects. To him, the only subject is him, and all of you are the objects in his world. A homosexual at least loves a human; an animal addicter at least loves something alive; a fetish at least loves a thing. Not like you. You love no objects, which means, you love nothing in both of the subjective and objective, yours and theirs, philosophy or pyschology system.
All of it, is an illusion surrounding you, me, and him, till the end of the world of the end of the world.