Love will always be a game.

I <3.

I swore I'd never fall again. That it won't catch me off guard ever again, that I'll constantly be in control. I'd keep my head held high and fend off anyone trying to reach in.

Why?

It's just easier, I guess. The moment you start having feelings for someone, everything just shifts uncontrollably and in order to regain control, a lot of collateral damage occurs. It's the kind of damage you can't avoid and when it happens, you don't even realise it. Takes a while to figure out exactly what went wrong and when, and even if you do... Nothing ever changes past events. Time doesn't rewind. Ever.

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I <3. It's always the little things. The way you lightly touch my skin, or when you reach for me at five in the morning. To say my insides flutter with an overflow of feelings would be too much of a mushy cliche. But it does. And I can't stop it, no matter how much I try.

I've fallen. I can't get away from this, you draw me into your atmosphere worse than gravity and it would be useless to try and push it away. I try to be guarded, but when it comes to you and <3, I think you had me at hello. Is that too silly? Do you even remember the first hello? A drunken haze surrounds our first moments together and it's hard to tell if you ever knew. Sometimes I wonder if you'll ever know. Or if I'll be brave enough to say it out loud.

Yes, it scares me. It's insecurity, you'll say. But I know it's not. It plays off as being an insecure little child, but it's actually an alarm bell that failed to ring one too many times. And we all know what happens when you forget to wake up...

It's okay. They say I'm strong. Will I still be strong if you destroy me? If you rip my heart out and chuck it away... Take what you need or want, as I won't stop you. Make me cry until I see red. Cut me open and see I'm real. Give a little and get a lot. Just as long as you <3.

I do. I <3. Berry much.

I never thought, I used to know.

People are fickle. We dress poor lies in glamorous words and hope we'll get away with it, for if we said what we really meant...

Truth hurts. No matter how small or big, simple or complex, it always tears through and at the end you're left standing without a piece of yourself. It comes like a hard blow, like a tornado of hurtful words that one cannot stop or predict. Regardless of how guarded we try to be and how much we pretend we're not affected, we end up having to pick up the pieces and start building afterwards, just like the consequence of an earthquake.

Sometimes, it's good when things end. Some happen just to teach us valuable lessons, mostly about ourselves. And then, occasionally, we have to learn that there's nothing to know, apart from what it actually is. No hidden meaning or resolution, just painful experience.

Most of the time, though, this part of life comes at a huge price, because whenever something ends, it takes away something precious. And it leaves behind moments that take forever to become blissful memories. Today, a private symbol of fondness and affection, tomorrow's blood, tears and sweat. We tend to forget this part, and try again. And that's alright.

For if we didn't try, we'd end up becoming empty shells of the people we use to be once. With every single person that comes and goes, we shift and change and evolve. And it hurts. And it's okay.

It's okay to grow. It's okay to learn. It's okay to hurt. And most of all, it's okay to forget and let go.

All for posterity.

People talk to me a lot. Whether they do it because I seem approachable and relatable (which I highly doubt, since I’m always wearing my ‘fuck off’ expression) or because they just feel like I’m trustworthy and therefore easy to chat with, fact is they talk to me a lot. I’m on a train to Central London and somewhere between Balham and the centre of the universe, someone will sit down and begin chatting about what a wonderful, starry night it is. Or when I’m in line at the supermarket, they’ll let me know my cans of coke are 2 for 1 and then immediately revert to how blue my eyes are. You get my drift.

I always talk back. Always. I may not smile as politely as they’d like me to, but I say something back, so as to not let these people with a horrible first (and usually, last) impression. Hell, if they say something really nice or interesting, I’ll even smile and pretend I care. Why pretend? Because extremely rarely it happens that a random person can actually strike a spark of interest in me. I’m the human personification of a sponge for knowledge. So chances are I already know those cans are on offer and I have looked at the shade of blue in my irises. But I smile and nod, because it makes people feel good and then they go out onto the street and in a world of sadness and war and sorrow, they feel good for about 30 seconds. But hey, that’s better than nothing.

However, what particularly strikes me as interesting is those rare occasions when I get to meet someone remotely fascinating and we start up a conversation while waiting in line to a pharmacy or trying to get tickets to the up coming tour of some band that shall remain unnamed. They ask where I’m from, because I, no matter how hard I try to blend in, don’t look English. Yes, I may speak the language quite perfectly, but I will always look foreign, despite living here for two years now. I usually say ‘Eastern Europe’ because it’s anonymous and it’s how I would like to stay, for the time being. And… Three. Two. One.

Their eyes begin to shine. Actually, wait. There’s like a hint of glitter in their look and they give me a once over, so as to let me know they ‘understood’. At first, I was puzzled and didn’t bother to ask what exactly it was that they suddenly knew so well. But as it kept on happening, I eventually had to give in and ask. And I hate asking. My country of origin seems to be giving away details about myself that I never bring in a random, casual conversation. It tells strangers that it’s okay for me to get married and beaten up, because that’s the rumour. It says that I’m some kind of sex freak, because they were in the capital once and two hookers blew their mind away. It screams that we’re stupid, simply because the country’s systems are at a lower value and people running it are old fashioned and it’s still customary for men to buy off young girls to marry into their wealthy families. Because the latter families don’t have what it takes to send their daughters to school and give them a chance to proper education and knowledge.

It doesn’t tell anyone that we learn in school what others never learn, despite following an education path for years in a row. It never once told them that I come from the country that invented penicillin or the first aeroplane. It doesn’t speak about great landscapes and amazing legends, fantastic architecture styles or really good food. But it does say I should get down on my knees in an alleyway or become a doormat for my future partner.

And it’s sad. I used to be ashamed by my roots and pretend I was born in a no name country, because of all those things. But I realised after being away for so long that it’s not in a country to make one’s name, it’s in our characters and what we choose to believe and do. It’s our choices that determine these things you get to know about one person, not where they were born. I’m now proud to come where I come from. I’ve learnt to appreciate the good things and take the bad along with them, because there’s no right without wrong, no beauty without ugliness and no happiness without sadness.

You speak in a dead, dead language.

Dear Jane,

Today I am breaking up with you.

How long has it been now? Eh, I guess it's too much to recount, too many memories we can't revive and one too many sad days we really shouldn't bring back. A little bit of this and a little bit of that, and somehow we make our way to the same sticky ending: the one that makes me suffer the most, because it hurts so much I can taste blood. But isn't this how life really goes? There comes a time we must let go of the things that hurt us because we know deep down we deserve to be happy. Yes...

Of course there's been good times, too. Perhaps far much more than bad, but it's always the negative that keeps nagging at us, destroying the small glimpses of raw, powerful happiness. Am I scared? I'd be an idiot not to admit it, because it leaves me petrified. I am now choosing to leave behind the only person that I've known for as long as I can remember. But I have to... Because you're selfish and impatient, childish and impossible at times, and it's hard to accept that I need to break up with you in order to find myself again. A new me, obviously. One that's all grown up and ready to face the big, bad world without having you for a comfortable, familiar cushion. I'm scared I'll fall to the ground and bruise my knees and there won't be anyone to wipe off the trickling trail of blood, that I'll have to hold the cry in and bit my lip until it's sore because there won't be anyone to laugh it off and tell me it's going to be alright.

But that would be lying. Telling me things will be okay and actually witnessing that...Huge difference. And it never seems to come true. I've waited so many years in hopes that I won't have to do this. I've lied and cheated and pretended. All in vain. As it happens, I have to break up with you. I have to learn that childhood is a warm place we all have to leave at one point, but I choose to keep a small part of it hidden in my soul, because I never want to stop being a kid. I never want to stop being happy for the silliest of things, or desire to fall in love until my knees bend under the strength of someone's smile. I want to be able to jump in a bed with my shoes on and still remember when I was a kid and my mum used to shout at me to stop. What I don't want anymore is the guilt. The fact that I need to stop making excuses for myself is just a side effect. In the end, I choose to take you with me wherever I go and no matter where I end up. It just won't be the same.

I don't know how to say goodbye to you. I'm not good at things I don't want to do. Shall I pretend I don't care... I could. But I won't, not today. Because today. I'm breaking up with you. I'm letting you go and I'm setting myself free.


I'm setting myself free of me. Goodbye, Jane.

Something to lose.

Today, I'm wearing my coffee stained jeans. The ones I'd tucked at the back of my wardrobe and had to pull out in a rush this morning. In which, of course, I forgot all about the fateful stain. It's barely noticeable and since I'm not doing anything important, not like the world will see it. Or my jeans. Or me in my jeans. But I was wondering how old this particular stain was and if it'll come out in the wash. And then, my mind drifted onto more spiritual subjects. Doesn't it always...

How come people come into our lives and smear it all over, only to leave us more feverish than if we had the flu? And I wish they'd give us the recipe for removing these marks. I don't want to carry a stain of disappointment because I let down my parents and didn't become a doctor. I don't need my heart to be like a puzzle of stains thanks to all the people that broke it and left me breathless and feeling dirty, carrying around the small pieces needed to assemble the organ back. Like red wine on a white shirt. Bloody and impossible to remove. Then, there's always those patches from friends, little scrapings of feelings that brush onto me and never leave me. Some good, some bad. Some unforgettable and some I wish they'd never crossed my path.

Of course, perhaps the smudges I really hate are the ones of disappointment towards myself. That I may never become a journalist, because I'm too afraid to put myself out there. That I never learned photography, despite loving it. Or that I never had the courage to go after what I really wanted, because I always thought it wasn't for me. And so the days go by and I live in regret, when all I ever wanted was to be free of this particular feeling. I don't like regret, for it makes me wallow in self pity and contemplate a little too much the troubles of life. And that's when we forget to live. When we're too busy thinking of what might have been. Would we even try to change it, even if we could? Maybe the most courageous ones of us would.

We wear patches of feelings and shadows of the past, all on our hearts. They all make sure to shape us into the people that we are in the present, and we have to live with it until more stains come and hit us, like blotches of paint. Like the world is filled with artists meant to create our painting. They come, they splash, they leave us to deal with the aftermath. But like this coffee stain I'm proudly wearing on my right leg, what stains will eventually come out and which of them will remain forever, like tattoos...?

Come into my world.

I am a dreamer. I like to envision things the way I'd like them to happen, only to complain later on that such things were never possible. The one tiny detail that always escapes my mind is that I actually need to take action and make something happen. Action needs movement, or so they say...

Sometimes, I act on it. Too soon, and then it falters and dies, leaving me wondering why. Too late, and it breaks my heart because I could have done it sooner and ended up in a different place, but realising at the same time that everything happens for a reason. It being my broken heart....? I often wonder. Other times, I choose to watch things unfold from afar. Like a spectator. My life unveils in front of me like on a stage and I find myself criticising the main character, which is... (big surprise) me. I think of all the better lines I could have written and I leave the theatre with regret.

It confounds me. It comforts me, at the same time. Having a broken heart because of something I didn't do or didn't say is familiar. So much that I often long for it in the very few glimpses of happiness I get. I always say I want to see change in the world and in my life, but I cling so tightly to the same feelings, things, photographs and memories... Like I was branded and these are all ink under my skin. Can't change it.

But here's the funny thing. Why would anyone want to change anything? All the problems and issues and experiences and bad days, they all mean something. Along all the good that happened throughout my life, I've always taken the bad, too. Because I'm a dreamer. And I dream of a day when my eyes won't cry blood. I dream of you. Every day, until I get the chance to make it real. Until then, I dream of you. Because I'm a dreamer.

Time marches on.

At the age of 24, I hardly know what life is anymore. I’m supposed to be enjoying it and making the most of it, but all I do is sit at home and wallow in self pity. I’m tired. I feel like it doesn’t matter anymore, like I don’t matter and I simply wish to disappear. If I were to evaporate as if I had never even existed, it would be best… I’d like to say I’m sorry, but that would be a lie. I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry I want to die. I’m not sorry my dreams don’t matter to me anymore. I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m not. I can’t feel anything but this disgusting, paralysing fear that won’t let me see past it. Like I’m hitting an invisible wall every time I try.

I’m so tired. I pretend a lot. I make my friends believe I’m okay. I’m a compulsive liar. I’m not okay. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again. But to the world, I’m fine. I party like it’s 1999, I flirt with girls and cry over the one I really like, but can’t have. I fantasize about going back to school and finally being on my way to where I always wanted to be. But I don’t know what I want anymore. Some days, I hope to god I won’t wake up in the morning. Others, very few and far in between, I actually wake up and feel a little bit better. Not entirely okay, but I keep telling myself that if a said day was better than before, then ‘okay’ has to be somewhere around the corner. It never is. I can’t remember the last time I was genuinely happy. A day when I didn’t stop to think about everything that’s so very wrong with my life and how big of a failure I am. Have I ever been happy? No, really. I went to school, graduated, had relationships, problems with family, a shitty childhood, met my favourite boyband, moved to the city of my dreams, finally accepted who I was…. And I can’t think of one day when I was just happy. Not one.

I think that’s my biggest issue. I focus so much on what happened before, trying to find a moment of happiness, so I can finally realise that I can and should try to be happy. That I should get out of bed even when I don’t want to. That I need a purpose and motivation to fulfil all of my dreams, big or little. But I just can’t. I can’t even say what’s stopping me other than…. Well, me. I feel so disconnected from the world, from myself, from everything that once mattered. I’m just throwing it all away and for today, it’s okay. I can’t fight it anymore. Tonight I want to lay down and never wake up. Cause maybe, just maybe, that would stop this heartache I feel every day when I’m taking one more step away from what I want and what I could do with my life. Perhaps. Such is life, I guess.