lado bê

The girl who writes never appears alone. Although she looks lonely, she is not. All the characters that she created hover around her to fill the empty spaces of her life, there is also the entrance of all the worlds that she created because the real world was never enough. She creates life with her hands, her eyes are always crawling through reality looking for magic.

When she looks at you with those deeper and more mysterious eyes than the Mariana Trench, she not only sees you, but all the possibilities you carry. She will unravel each moment, seek and give meaning to each word. They will not be meetings, they will be studies. It won’t just be kisses, it will be experiences. You will be an experiment in progress.

And maybe the yoke of finding yourself in what she writes is heavy, because you will know how she really sees you, and for eternity, infinite people will see you only through her eyes. Your qualities will no longer belong to you, but to a character that she cooked and drew from the first day you met. And your defects … They will be there, sharp and raw. She will have no mercy by scratching them on paper. And, perhaps, your conscience is out of alignment, after all, are you the one told on paper, or did she invent something along the way to make the representation of you interesting?

Then, after feeling trapped by her, as spider webs came out of her hands forming the most intricate patterns, you would finally ask the most important question. The question that would haunt you around every corner of your brain. After all, does she love you made of flesh and blood or is she in love with you made of black ink on coated paper?

However, an even more cruel fate can offer anyone who falls into the discomfort of dating a girl who writes.

Remember all the moments you spent together, all the conversations about life and the universe, about love and death, all the festive dates, all the statements made in the dark … So, you find her name on a book cover in a bookstore, just by accident, you buy it. Whether the book is a collection of poems, or short stories, or an epic adventure. You take it home and open it, your eyes devour the pages as if you’ve never eaten before, because they look for you. The curiosity and vanity of being somehow described in her words are overwhelming. The pages are turned over and over and then not a shadow, not a moment. You find nothing.

You look astonished at those yellowed pages, which tell so much about her and nothing about you. At the end of all those years, with you wondering why it didn’t work, you realize, saddened, that you didn’t mean anything to her. And the emptiness of this finding is titanic. You were not her muse and she did not give you eternal life from her words. You don’t even know if you really existed for her, because whoever reads that book fifty years from now will never know that you’ve been part of her life.

So, would you risk eternal life under her terms or would you settle for eternal forgetfulness?