I didn't know I was dreaming big.

I get down to writing as if it would hurt. I needn't try to capture whole weeks in these few sentences; all the facts, their meanings and my conclusions, too. it makes me not write at all. I just tear off my thoughts one after another like calendar pages, OK, keep going, don't look, it might hurt, move forwards, just forwards.

today's evening was absolutely special. Dee's lips are very sweet. her warmth is humane and soothing. I don't have to change into someone else. there was a moment when I was starting a sentence about something that's difficult for me to talk about and seeing her face lighting up I already knew she would understand. it was probably the most comforting experience of last few weeks.

I can't figure out why the accidental and unthinkable relationships I began when I was fifteen, are a hundred times more valuable, real and deep than the ones I developed as an adult – a woman aware of her sexual and personal identity, better up on the society, more confident of herself and her arguments. it's as if those early intuitive attempts, so trustful and full of childlike curiosity, were to pay off to a much larger extent than those adult games we play now in this general feeling of being lost between the need of creating our own families and social networks - and stepping back into ourselves, that primeval home. have I changed that much or has the world changed?

last night the snow fell at last. about 2 am I was coming home in a night bus; it was slippery and white, alcohol went to my head and I stuck to the moment and the fluidity of motions and the peaceful views I observed through the window, one after another. I could feel, like I frequently do these days, that this is what I am left with: this momentary anesthetization, short compensation in this state of empty hands. I have failed to build in this big and buzzing city anything I could fall back on. when the emptiness comes and I fall down, I keep on getting back to the center of the system: to my mother and father, to my Dee of a long standing who's still the same and still beautiful; to R. and his sentiments, even to A. with whom I'm still unable to communicate. everything that came later, all those people I met here, stay only on the surface, no ties, nothing promised and nothing matters if I should disappear. funny, back then I thought those few miraculous encounters, meeting people like Dee, were just the beginning, some kind of introduction to some fabulous things awaiting me in the future. but the promised city turned out to be nothing but space where I can walk away my pain, solitude and fear. and the offices of psychologists who spread their arms helplessly. and colorful people who are so difficult to reach because they feel safer if you keep the distance. more and more bills left in places I can't really afford, but then I deserve some pleasure, don't I.

it all makes me get back to my old dreams and read them like some original and only truth that can tell me more about my humanity than here and now, the real time, this day, this bread, this January snow, cause now it's all mistaken, distorted and twisted in a sad expression.

Dee and the memory of her warm hand will let me fall asleep without hydroxyzine tonight.