03/27

This is when I think of her most often. It is when it's been ten months since I decided I didn't want to see her again, now, when she's finally accepted it as a fact. Now she is here, all her, with everything I hated about her, with the beginning about four years ago, and with the night in one of the last summers – and with the end that frayed my nerves, like a dog, like a blow dealt blindfold.
I couldn't trust my mind till the very last page of "White Oleander" – couldn't believe in the perfect similarity between her, the one that's haunting me now, and Ingrid Magnussen. It's impossible, but there it is, 1:1, each comment, description, lines she speaks – it could have been you, somehow it is you to me, with all your fucking superiority that makes everybody around fall down, with the premeditation and poison of yours – but one that is able to defend itself with the weapon of its strength and beauty. The denial of all religious systems and common senses. You. The one I wasn't able to separate myself from and it wasn't until the great cold Berlin wall of not seeing, not listening and of remaining silent was built that I actually found some tangible distance between us. The forever distance.
Or
I don't know what it is – it's March 27, two and seven, these numbers always lead me to you – the nights begin to get warmer, it's no longer the season of the nights in which to survive, to run through; now the nights start having their content. The smell, the wind, and the sky lingers over its colors everyday a bit longer. And it's today that I read the last lines by Janet Fitch, you, you, you, till the last page with no objective human flaw – did Janet know you, wasn't she able to defeat you, just like I wasn't. Our single voice against you, against Ingrid Magnussen: sometimes the superiority and strength is not enough. Or rather: it's just not IT. (If we said you are simply evil, both of you would laugh your heads off.)
And just like at the end Astrid sits in her cold flat dreaming of her mother and Los Angeles, so my thoughts deviate in the direction of your body – how does it look like now? All I can see is your back, just like when I used to have dreams about you so often, always with your back to me, always three steps before me, unattainable. At some point I found in myself the disgust for you that's still inside me, together with the yearning.
The goddamn shrew, but still – the only one, one in a million.

Or maybe my mind has just mixed things up.