“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”
― George Orwell, 1984
My absolutely brilliant Sunday of 15th of November…
It’s not you, it’s just myself. You were so glorious this morning during breakfast. Full of light and with the exact number of clouds on the sky. There’s not much else to say rather than you looked amazing dressing up with that winter dress. It’s a shame that I had just spilled up black tea over your white dress before we could even get closer to touch each other.
I know, I have ruined many moments of joy between you and I. And, I really wish, I could wash out every single stain of black tea that I have spilled over your clothes. You already know me, pretty a lot, I’d really like to think so.
So, you already know what I will say out loud: Squeeze me up… Tear me apart and then I will stop hurting you so much. . . sssimple as thaaattt. . . Mi amor apache. . .
Hurst to hear, and silently repeat, such as desperated words. But, the moment of getting over our meaningful relationship has just arrived! That’s life. . .
. . .
How come we do stand each other a lot of stupidity and nonsense drama? Is it fucking love or it’s just your another way to make me pay back with blood for all what I’ve done to you?
Oh, bloody, bloody, and wintery Sunday!
Sunday, bloody Sundays. . .