lettres from another time

A red pale sprig from "Passiflora incarnata"

A few days later, she sent me another message She was apologizing for being late in responding, she was busy. I know that she was not like that, or perhaps her only concern was that she did not want to bother writing and sending the letter again by mail. she  wrote to me then today when she  has nothing else to do, I wanted to cry, because it was beautiful, and it was also impossible for it to happen, when I leave love and do not wait for its expectations, all this love does is return. It is as if I see myself falling from a high peak, or feel like I am flying, but there is a moment of collision that there is no point in running away from. A moment of decline in which we all break and fall into separate pieces. Oh, the ugliness of the awaiting scene. I cry because this love, with all its beauty, is useless from now on. What is the use of the decoration of a peacock when it cannot alleviate our sorrows, and what is the use of the sinking dusk if it does not drown our sorrows as well? And it was very terrible for me to do what I was doing, to have fun creating chaos in my heart, to love her, in order not to feel bored with these boring days. I was stupid because all I was doing was killing myself later with intense boredom that I couldn't survive and nothing would distract me from it. Taking love as entertainment, making love take me too as entertainment, I am the man who thought I had my own psychological weapons, weapons that make me strong against sadness, against pain. But the moment I fired all my bombs and all my ammunition, I discovered that I had nothing but children’s toys, that all my weapons were explosives for love parties, not wars of sadness, and oh, how great was my disappointment that I was very small in front of what I once thought was very small in front of me... After I read what she wrote to me, I felt that love again, and everything returned to its place, but it never returned to its size. Her love was too great to bear or forget. And my experience taught me that if I were satisfied with a little in love, that would mean that love would also not give me much. Love would remain incomplete and weak, a cripple that needed someone to push it and guide it. I have no interest in this paralyzing love. , but I was ambitious for her, and I decided to tell her for the first time that I admire her words, and that I remember them sometimes. I wrote sometimes and pressed on my ink. It was bleeding darkness. If sometimes, it means all my time. But was she smart enough to pay attention, or would she also read my letter in a hurry, and never notice that the word “sometimes bleeds” cries for her forever?

After sending the message, she did not delay this time and sent another response. So was she bored of her athletic boyfriend and I didn't care for him at all? He is a man who could not accept his loss because she had rejected him before, even though he was there alone with no competition, and a man who could not accept rejection. He will remain a man who can never be respected She will definitely reject him again, with a man who refuses everything for her sake A man on the edge of the other world tells her that she is his whole world.

Her athletic lover was not successful for anything other than his athletic skill, which he flaunted in front of her. He was eating everything healthy, and he forgot that love is not healthy at all. It needs a man to fuck in every way and eat everything. He was unaware, he didn't notice. A woman loves what she hears, not what she touches. A woman's heart is just like a blind person. It does not care about the metals it touches, gold or silver, nor does it care about its bright or dim colors, or its strength and hardness. All things are equal to her in their colors, shapes, and metals A blind person only chooses what he feels in his heart He tends toward things that he feels he knows and that he knows and that he is comfortable with and that are comfortable for him He loves to be listened to, to be touched gently, to make him see through our eyes and with our souls as well, that love is an art. This is why we call love blind. Because he does not care about the size of your muscles that touch her body. He cares about the size of your words that touch her heart and soul. That's why I realized that I would be the man who would win her in the end, even though I was so far away from her. And he will be the man who will lose her, even though he is so close to her. It was not a matter of distance, but rather a matter of gravitational mass She sleeps in his arms, but she loves me, the one who inhabits her dreams every night After eight months, and after a thousand love letters between us, we have not stopped corresponding. It has become a necessary thing. We live with each other. We exchanged long sexual messages, and who told you that sex cannot also happen through imagination? I made love with her for more than a thousand nights and she also made love with me for more than a thousand nights. It just required that we feel each other and write in our hearts.