According to my mother i started saying âi love youâ when i was barely 3 years old. Mostly when it was bedtime i think I confused it with âgoodbyeâ or maybe with âI really wanna see you when I wake up againâ.
I still do, love confuses me or maybe i confuse it ?
Endearing in its ideation, Infuriating however it falls on the human race.
Iâm not good with love, nor in love and I doubt i can be around it.
I admire it, i do. I think about it, I write about it
But Iâm never in the same page with myself when it comes to it. So we came to an agreement: one rule : never reach out to touch.
Iâm lovable, that much I knowâŚ
But my love is only a reaction thatâs is equal in force to the curse of my existenceâŚ
And so is my creativity, the restriction of my melancholy.
My spilled poems⌠my aborted children donât resent me dear ones, i had no choice, but to give birth.
Do you still want to talk about love ?
Once, i asked my mother: "Mama, do you remember what was the first thing you said to me when I was born?"
She said âyou're going to be so lovedâ.
I think she cursed me with loveâŚ
â˘Quotes: Fyodor Dostoevsky/Friedrich Nietzsche/Jean Rhys/ Maya Angelo /Franz kafka/ Louis Tomlinson/Albert Camus/ Michael Ondaatje/Louis Tomlinson/ Anne Sexton.
â˘Original context: Sinligh
1. Scott Noel, Telemachus and the Sirens. 2. philip geiger - hidell brooks gallery. 3. Albert Maignan Death of William the Conqueror, 1885. 4. Charles Pfahl Sunday Times. 5. Art by Brooke Shaden. 6. Art by Edwin Georgi
