Altogether unusual

My mind, home of the dead

"There was something dark about that love, like a cloud over my judgement, like a rewritten script for an already planned life. As I think about this, I want to laugh out loud. Not because I am going insane, but because whoever it was who changed the train tracks, did a damn good job. I was just not fast enough to catch up and I fell off. My life had been entirely figured out, not by one, but by two people. My father wanted me to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a something important, and he had fought me to the end to push me in that direction. I, on the other hand, wanted to be a writer, and all my moments, awaken or otherwise, were used toward that ultimate dream. Either way, I knew what would happen to an inch. When I saw her for the first time I was dumbstruck. And while I was at it, someone stole my perfect plan for life and made some adjustments. Now, thinking of it, there is nothing worse than knowing how life is going to be from the beginning to the end. It's stupid, is what it is. As much as one plans, taking care of all the details, the more life slaps one in the fucking face. Now I realise I was preparing myself to be a very bad writer. 'Get a real life!' life screamed at me. It was October when I first saw her, dismounting her motorbike. She was all leather and awkwardness. But still, I sat there, by my car and watched her as she made her way to the school's steps. She was new, that I knew for sure. New in all the possible ways. All dark, hair falling in black waves down her back, translucent skin, she appeared to me as a centre of power. She was sure on her moves, her steps were equal and sure. Her body seemed well adjusted to itself, trained to survive, to assess. I was going to find out later how much her body would match mine in all the ways one could imagine. Even her hand in mine belonged, her skin on mine, her head on my shoulder and even her physical presence next to mine in the London fog. I knew from the start she was not looking to make friends because of the way she searched her way alone, without asking for advice or directions. It was not that she couldn't fail, but that she was ready to fail and try again. 'Fail better', Beckett would say.

I was important. And nothing was more important than that.

She had this quality. She made me human, somehow. I loathed that. I needed to focus, to care about the only important thing – becoming a writer. She should not have been important at all. I was important, and the work I did. I was important. It was a self-imposed loneliness which suited me just fine, kept me in check. Boys my age cared about fucking, about girls. Girls my age were just childish. I moved in different spheres. It had always been a mystery to me how people cared about such menial things. Let's take fucking, for instance. Why is that so hard, no put intended? It is a normal urge, but why do they have to broadcast it, make it bigger than it is? You fuck with passion like this is your only purpose, you leave. No big deal. Nobody knew my business and I never wanted to know theirs. They called me all the names in the book, but I couldn't bring myself to give a damn. It was not a fight; it was a thrill, to be able to distance myself from the worldly. The world was only important as long as it served my goal.

Reason for which I would have never imagined, or better yet accepted, that my first book would be about a simple girl.

There are very few people who know me, and most of them are dead. When I finally admitted I couldn't resist her anymore I was very careful not to let her know me. Clearly I couldn't be without her, but that didn't mean I had to change. My life was still my own. Right? I needed to do what I had to do to get to what I wanted more. I was important. Right? Wrong.

I am telling this to myself repeatedly because in my stupid brain there is still this hope I can make myself not love her. I cannot even remember how I was before loving her. It feels like I always loved her. Always wanted her in my life. But the truth is I changed. From the absolute moment I saw her. I could have ignored her, but I wanted to shoo her away, to pluck her out of my reality, thus making her important. Getting close to her was another mistake. As much as I tried to keep her out of my way, I put myself in hers constantly. I wanted, I want, her around. And I found ways to just be there. Then. Then I lied to myself I needed her help. Now I know I just couldn't breathe without her. Not properly anyway. What bugs me the most is that I never had those urges, like talk, or share, or reveal, before I met her. But she created the need in me. She dug in the holes which I would need to fill in with her presence. For a long time it was enough. I knew she liked me, but yet again, it happened quite often for girls to make advances towards me. I always obliged, because I am a gentleman. And I am also an idiot. But this girl, this woman, never did. She accepted our friendship and didn't ask for more. I had no leverage. I couldn't make her actively want me.

In a way I never completely caved. I never surrendered. I found an escape around every corner, an excuse for every slip. I was and I wasn't with her. I fucked her, I didn't love her. I could sleep just fine alone at night. I didn't need her head on my pillow, all smelling like carbon and ink and summer and pure, innocent life. For a woman who liked cold weather, mist and rain, this woman smelled a lot like summer. She was fresh, refreshing and new like green grass in a summer day.

I have been so full of shit. I wanted her to need me. Really need me, but she didn't for a long time. And when I knew it was important for her to have me near, I missed the opportunity like a champ. I really struggled to win the last place. I told myself she'll be there when I'd find the time. I thought I was so mature, taking over, being a grown-up. She couldn't possibly understand the weight on my shoulders.

I thought I have her pinned down, so I could take her out of her box when I wanted to. Like a rare moth from the Silence of the lambs. I always watch the ceiling at night wondering if her lambs are still screaming. But she couldn't be limited. I know that now, when she's gone. She became and evolved without me, no wonder I failed to sense that the only thing limited was my time with her.

I still remember when she appeared into my room in a sort of witch-Victorian sort of outfit, coming to my rescue. I was so sure I deserved her back then. That I have her for as much as I wanted. Can't believe I lied to myself with such talent. It was all right there, in front of me, from the first time we talked. I didn't have her, she had me. But we are stupid creatures of habit, and as humans we always hurt the ones who love us the most, like somehow, by loving us, they sign in blank to be mistreated and pushed aside. Love is strange. Everybody has an opinion about it, they teach seminars, they write books, make movies and give advice. Everybody thinks they know love. But it is different all the time. Some might say I hurt now because I lost her, that if I had truly loved her, I would have cherished her then, when she was with me. But it is not true. I loved her always. I didn't want to recognize it, to her and to me, but I did love her. I still do. I changed then because of her, in so many ways. My issue was accepting it. Like a kid throwing a tantrum because the toy they broke cannot be fixed. As down to earth as I appeared on the outside, I do think I was a child inside. I have been acting superior my entire life. I knew I was smart, my blue blood helped a lot in my sense of superiority, and there was nothing I could never do, or learn. And I liked to think I wanted to be writer because it was my passion, like I could do anything else, but I chose this. Wrong. I never managed to be a business man. It took a year after she left to finally recognize I cannot do it all. Of course I blamed her at first. 'I cannot do this well enough because she always wants us to meet, to spend time together.' But then she left me alone, and I still couldn't get the hang of it. Then, smarter still, I blamed her again: I couldn't do what I was supposed to because the idea of her vanishing into thin air was distracting me. Wrong all the way. In fact, I missed her. And whether she was there or not, that was a job I couldn't do. Sometimes it is an enigma to me that my head fits through the door. Me and my stupid ego.

Loving should be an art. It shouldn't be a back-up plan. No two people, any two people are alike. How can anyone think they'll find it again? Or that they can replace it?

Now that I think about it, I love everything about her. Her strangeness, he liquid eyes, the china doll features and the way she was so strong. A china doll in leather clothes. I smile at the thought because it is stupid. It sounds tacky. She's much more than that. I miss the map of her skin. Not only I want to drag my finger over her hipbone tattoo, kiss the quill behind her ear and read the poem written on her ribs, but I want to see her future. I am really amazed I do not only see how she was when I had her around, but how she is now, when I haven't seen her for a year and a half. I try to guess what new tattoos she has, what she dreams about, where she is in the world. Who loves her?

I never ask myself why she left so suddenly. I know why she did it. I deserved it too. Now, when I have the courage to admit all these, I feel a little weird, like seeing the woman I love in a relationship with an idiot who treats her like garbage. Only that I am the idiot. I behaved in half measures, always being sure I can escape.

There was never a real escape. Do you hear me? Do you read me? I need you."