too-much-imagination

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Guernica; Pablo Picasso, 1937

An anti-war painting created in response to the bombing of Guernica (1937) during the Spanish Civil War by Nazi German and Italian Fascists supporting Francisco Franco, the fascist Spanish leader.

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The Desperate Man / Desperation; self-portrait by Gustave Courbet, 1843-1845

The Man Made Mad with Fear; self-portrait by Gustave Courbet, 1843-1844

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She tells everyone that we still have contact. She broke up with her boyfriend and says that she worries about „bringing a girl into her house”. This means she’s thinking seriously about getting me there.

I chatted with her two weeks ago. Two weeks. And she says we’re talking again.

We woke each other’s hearts, then we both broke them. Healing was painful, but I survived. And now you’re doing such things? Now you’re missing me? Now you send me pictures and quotes that used to be so important to us?

She texted me as soon as she broken up with her boyfriend.

I’m her escape, her safe space, her home. But she can’t treat me only like this. I’m a human being. I deserve real love and care. Not just temporary affection. (This „temporary affection” lasts for almost four years now. This is how much time I’ve wasted.)

AND WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT ME TO A FRIEND WHO DOESN’T KNOW ME, WHY ARE YOU TELLING HER SO MUCH PERSONAL DETAILS? WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME YOU MISS ME AND YOU STILL LOVE ME AND YOU CAN’T GET OVER ME AND YOU REMEMBER EVERYTHING?

No. It cannot happen again. I can’t sacrifice myself again. I’m not the only one responsible for all that happens in the relationship. It can not happen again.

You hear me? Yes, I’m talking to you, the one typing this shit. You can’t fall for that nonsense again.

But she was my escape, my safe space, my home, my girl, she was mine and I was hers.

Why did you say all that…?

How dare you spark hope in me?

Oh, God…

[too-much-imagination]

I want somebody to paint me.

it’s a metaphor, do your thing

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Selene; Ferdinand Keller, 1886

Selen thrown Down by Argus (the dog), a scene from the novel The Emperor by Georg Ebers.

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i need a hug.

i desperately need a hug.

and i know it wouldn’t end with only a hug.

i would drown in tears.

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There is the next one.

Stolen glances again. Heart pounding in my chest after a mere brush of the hand. Warmth pouring into my body when they wait for me, just for me. Sparkly eyes during so many laughs and smiles. Light conversations, some shy attempts to talk seriously but making it seem like joking around eventually.

All of it once more.

I end up writing about something that hasn’t even started yet.

All of it once more.

And I’m scared it will end the same.

[too-much-imagination]

"So, what of next year's resolutions?", I heard my friend ask the other day and found myself stuck in a quiet storm, stirring the ache of all the changes I'd wished for but never lived this year. New days, new weeks, new months, new years—how often I've chased the illusion of 'new', convinced that everything would start from the very beginning—only to find myself, each day, pleading for the following day—begging each week for another week. How dearly I've celebrated the turning of each year, like prophets ushering in salvation, only to discover the freshness of the same calendar fading by February, the corners dog-eared, and promises—so solemnly sworn—becoming ghosts lingering in the silence of unkempt rooms. As if the trees that shed their twigs in autumn do not grow the same leaves with the same roots in spring—as if when flipping pages in a book, the story never retains its plot—as if the mere change of a night could unshackle the chains of a lifelong sorrow.

Shayan Das, New Year's Resolutions

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Eleanor of Aquitaine.

One of the wealthiest and most powerful women in Western Europe during Middle Ages.

Queen Eleanor; Frederick Sandys, 1858

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Lying Female Nude; Victor Casimir Zier, 1881

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If I was a poet, I would write only about you.

If I was a painter, I would do the portraits only of you.

If I was a singer, I would sing only for you.

I’m not any of them, the world didn’t give me any of those gifts, but it presented me you.

So how am I to bear the burden of your love?

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Dante and Virgil in Hell; William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1850

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Salome; Francesc Masriera Manovens, 1888

Salome’s Dance; Leopold Schmutzler, 1905-1907

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Tomorrow’s my first day at university. I have to make it work.

I have to be as good as I was in high school.

No. I have to be better. I have to get higher and higher, be smarter, more organised, more focused, more disciplined.

I have high hopes so don’t disappoint me, please. Because I won’t disappoint you.

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It’s over.

It was over a long time ago.

But now I say it’s over.

It’s over for me. And I think this is the best thing that could happen to me - finally stopping dreaming about us and dwelling on our past.

It was over a long time ago.

Now it’s over for me.

Even though you said you couldn’t be with me, I have to ask:

Is it over for you?

I’d like to see you struggle to answer this question, I’d like to hear your awkward mumbling. Because I know the truth. I know what you’re doing with any boy you meet now. I know what you’re telling them.

You do everything to forget that still

it’s not over for you.

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I was taking a test today. I finished writing but I always stay a little longer just in case. I started to look around the classroom and I could feel that something was drawing my eyes. It was him. He was staring at me. He was staring at me.

It’s funny because when I looked at him he looked away and lowered his head over the test immediately. Like a child.

I’m so satisfied by that situation.

It is clear that I’m becoming better. It is clear that he’s not going to be on top of the class anymore. I’m going to take his place. It is just a matter of time.

So yeah, you can stare at me however long you want. It will bring me nothing but pure pleasure.

[too-much-imagination]

As usual, some men can’t stand it when a woman is independent, not focused on them, horribly inteligent and educated and who has connections and friends almost in every field.

Hypatia; John Watkiss, 2003