Hoping you don't have any kind of notifications about posts here. Or hoping you do. Maybe hoping you'll discover it sometime later. Maybe hoping this will be one more thing I'll delete minutes after writing so as not to disturb you.
I come to this place and read the texts from that spring. I never understood them before. I felt so much pain reading them back then but this is nothing at all compared to what I feel now. Now I just can't, I can't, I can't. I so much deserve everything that I had to go through this winter. But I just can't. I decided to not comprehend it back then. I couldn't comprehend it back then. I can now, and I would rather not. Or perhaps that is a good thing. I guess this is ultimately the only way for me to feel alive again, and to not feel the scorching guilt.
But I can't, I really can't. I have only ever had two emotions in my life. One is the trademarked fear of death, which was by miles the realest of them all. The other is the love for you, now transformed in this everpresent pain. I guess they are the same. They are both about the inability to face any kind of finality.
But they - the fear and the pain - cannot exist simultaneously, and as it was written by you - I find the theoretical possibility of ending my life liberating. How stupid it is - at the same time I stare at the suddenly awakened lust for power and opportunities, with every chance to get into whatever masters I'd like, with the linkedin message from McKinsey, with my former boss offering me some new venture (and all of those things are not even a part of some story that I am inventing but literally my fucking life), at the same time I feel so drawn to this theoretical opportunity to get into the shower with the ceramic knife that you found stupid, and enjoy the higher temperatures for some prolonged time.
But I of course will never do anything like that, as I have promised explicitly and implicitly.
Adam Neely talks about controlling the feel of time in music. I can only think about all of the times my hand was moving, as per your request, first without any rhythm and then faster. How am I supposed to not think about it?.. What am I supposed to do with my desire (most sincere of my desires) to make you feel better?
My neighbors are probably by now so used to the strange sounds coming from my flat at these points where for some reason containing myself is not possible at all. The face ID is not always working at these moments and I don't want to know what my thoroughly moisturized and washed and special-cream-for-this-space-under-the-eyes-applied face looks like, because it probably looks like shit, and I'd never want you to see me like that again.
Maybe, just maybe, this experience is also bonding? Is there some ultimate connection that forms between us - the connection of having caused the wildest extremes of the emotional spectrum to each other?
I masturbate much more rarely and never with your image in mind.
I want us to be together separately. Each doing our own thing in the cities of our choosing. Perhaps it does work out like this, and I go to Helsinki, then to an MBA (hopefully indeed in Paris), then somewhere else. And you - I don't know, but I am absolutely certain that you'll never let yourself be unhappy again.

What about my (un) happiness though?

When having much deserved and financially plentiful rest, we'll be meeting. And then one day, we will pick a corner of the world (we'll be able to choose) and settle. And I will be the best father you could imagine.