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i’ve spent countless nights trying to understand him and the dreams. scrutinizing. moving. losing my language. getting blown away by conversations. i don’t understand how people can say they love me, as if it is easy. i don’t always want to speak out loud. i want to hold gazes, keep my eyes level with the ones who are talking. i do like it a lot when we e-mail past midnight, when friends give me reassurance. but it hurt too much to be taken by surprise, not knowing when the next dream would appear. it hurt too much to walk around in the streets, rain or snow or wind or sun or heat or memory all clogging up while i wondered why i wouldn’t talk, why i couldn’t tell her that i still cared about her, why i didn’t answer if someone were asking if we would be speaking soon. i feel better now. stronger, although i cannot explain my dreams. i cannot explain why i spend months trying to write despite the fact that i know there is something lacking. some people etch down in my memory. certain conversations, exchanges of glances. they make me write, every day. they let me create my stories.
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