Diary And Unsent Letters

"Can there be anything more absurd than this: to be moved by a wish that has no conceivable object" - Amadeu Prado said that. And I remembered Rome. He is a wish. My wish upon meteors and shooting stars. Now, it has come to me. He became Amadeu Prado, not the Amadeu Prado that talks about human depths, uncertainties, or languages but an Amadeu Prado that made Gregorius step out of his house, out of his shelter, out of his comforts, out of his love for latin. Rome, made me come out of my pedestrian. He has no consciousness of all the things he made me do.

Rome made me speak. I was braver because I recognized that I am capable of feeling. He is the woman in red, soaking in rain, reading Portuguese- and I am the helpless Gregorius, amazed by spark and the existence of something unfamiliar.

I felt attraction when he read my favorite novel, but he had been constant in my head, and I saw him bare in his thought; he recited Pablo Neruda, closed eyes, smiling, feeling... then he stopped. And he scribbled notes. He is more than a jock but a lover of words. This must be his layered secret and our common ground.

-Tatiana, 20xx