#literatu

Mientras nos quisimos nos entendíamos sin la necesidad de las palabras. Pero el amor no es eterno. Llegó el momento en que yo debí encontrar las palabras que la hubiesen retenido, pero no pude

It was June and we sat on the stairs of an entrance to a big proud house where formal people worked formal jobs. I loved his guts and he loves his drugs, a dog chasing its tail with no end in sight. The sun was so hot it threw waves on the concrete and I walked barefoot that summer, no shoes needed. We met by the bar on the beach, the perfect beginning of a sad novel and I collected stories for future books, I said. Didn’t let anything get too close or tight to get to me because I was untouchable. At least so I thought and it wasn’t his company I craved, or anyone else’s, it was the fascinating terror of what two people could cause in each other, the storms and marks and I had a feeling this wouldn’t end very well and so naturally I couldn’t resist. Too good to pass. I wrote the novel over and over that summer until I got sick of my own fulfilment of sorrow and threw it in the ocean from the boat back to Sweden and I’m not sure what I wanted to get out of all those nights and weeks with strangers and bottles, but I don’t regret it. I don’t regret a thing.

I know it didn’t mean the same thing back then, but I am immature.