How amusing it is not to find no resemblance between yourself and others around you and then to find yourself portrayed in a books as a type in a philosophic movement. My restlesness, pity, individuality, reactions, are thoroughly tabulated. I personally fulfill the description of the romantic ironist. When i get too worried by my problems, i shall look for te usual sotutions in some books. I can choose madness, suicide, or humanism. But how is it one does not resemble anyone alive and yet one can resemble at once all the romantic fools and diviniers in the encyclopedia?
I arrive at the conclusion i was afraid to formulate. I had obscurely begun to blame my "hombre" for my neurosis. (plus my family)
I was profoundly shocked, because i beleive he did not love me, and that our relationship was a mistake. incomplete union. I am always loving and receptive willing caresses.
The fact that i am acutely sensitive to his state of being, his moods, would be almost enough to cause my own depression. I am tired of death of his strange way to care. I owe the knowledge of what was poison us. and each line still dosent matter more than... I love him...still...until? who knows?
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