jueves, 16 de diciembre de 2010
¿Que es ser diferente? Un gran filosofo contesto a esta gran pregunta que ser diferente significa que te has haberte encontrato a ti mismo y que por fin eres libre. Entonces, ¿por que le tenemos tanto miedo a ser diferentes si en ello consiste la verdadera libertad?
lunes, 13 de diciembre de 2010
domingo, 12 de diciembre de 2010
miércoles, 1 de diciembre de 2010
I'm only young. But in my short life I've seen love, love lost and found, love shallow and true. This blog is beautiful, it helps me feel when I was numb before. I don't think you'll publish this, but I trust you to understand, and I need understanding. Here goes.I don't know why I always do this. There must be a genetic quirk in my brain or something, because I genuinely can't help myself. He is beautiful. He is smart. He is gentle and sweet and sexy and moody and as close to perfection as I can stand. Close as I can imagine. We've never kissed, never touched even. But I am his. For sure, I am his. Whether he wants me or not. There is no doubt about that. I think he wants me too. I think he's close to wanting me, close to doing something about the way we are.But this weekend. I made my mistake. The same one I always make. To be brutally honest and not in an arrogant way, I've always been the sort of girl with quite a few guys around me, but until this weekend I've managed to keep away from them. Managed to rebuff their advances gently and sweetly while never losing the dreamy expression that the one I belong to gives me. I woke up this weekend. I woke up when I fell asleep in his arms. It wasn't the right him.I was at this person's house. I drank wine with his mother, and mine. Then they went to bed, he slid a movie into the machine. His house is a beautiful farmhouse in the country; cold and big. We were in the smallest room on a couch with a blanket and a coal fire in the corner. I don't know that I need to be explicit here; one thing led to another. He cradled me in his strong arms, he kissed me with his lips and tongue and teeth, I felt his heart pounding through the thin cotton of my shirt. He was lovely. It was amazing. But he wasn't the right him.And now I don't know what to do. My guilt is crushing me- not that I really did anything all that wrong. He's not mine, I'm not his. Not officially. But if that's true, why do I feel so sick? This is my confession. I wish I hadn't needed something like this to make me realise how much I love him. Because now I don't deserve him.I needed to tell someone.I feel embarrassed, and stupid, both the user and the used, full of self-loathing. This is my confession.I love you, Christopher, with every shattered piece of my wasted heart. I'm sorry for everything.