I’m a writer who doesn’t write and a lover who doesn’t love. What could go wrong? Besides everything.
I force myself to spit out the words on the keyboard. Staring out the window at a summer full of promises never to be fulfilled, of a sun stranger in this frigid land. I’m too sober for this. Maybe. Or I simply don’t want to be bothered coping with the blurry future painted by my anxiety. A hopeless path leading to absolute loneliness and utmost failure.
Anna read my blog on the days I was wondering if I was a sex addict. She was drawn to me because of that. Partly, I hope. There must have been more to it. There was something in those deep blue eyes. No words could describe it. You had to be there. Lose yourself in them. To never come back. To understand every secret of the universe and not give a fuck about any of them.
Six months down the line, The Moroccan still is a mystery to me. “I don’t eat pork,” she said to me the other day; “I’m a Muslim, remember?” And I was shocked, somehow. How could I forget such a fundamental side of her? What else have I missed?
The end with Anna was the beginning of this angsty nightmare. Driving myself in autopilot, just barely steering not to crash. I parked my last drop of feelings in her, and threw the keys away on the park where I dumped her ass. And handbrake down and all, I still crashed. Have been injured since. Wondering the same: What else have I missed?