It's one of those things I don't really know how to do. How to deal with. I like it best just in the middle. After awkward introductions, before painful goodbyes. When you can't remember the start, and there's no ending in sight. That's the best part. Of anything, really. A book, a concert, a film, a relationship. A relationship. How do you end that? How do you end days and months, sometimes years, of interaction? Of talking, touching, learning, laughing, kissing. How do you find the words to say "it's been so, so very great to be with you, but I'm not going to anymore"? And even when you've found the words, where do you find the will? Buried, under the lump in your throat, as you grab their waist, knowing what is coming? Hiding, behind the tears you blink away, as they put their lips to yours, so soft, so slow? The words don't want to. Just like you. So you smile as they pull away, wishing it would last just a tiny second longer, but it doesn't, and they smile back at you, and you each walk your way, and you're not touching, and you never will again, and you squeeze out a "bye!" and they do the same. And that's how I do endings.
I don't.
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The sound of the laundry machine in the morning. The knock on my door on the days I sleep in. Hearing the house waking up while I'm still asleep. Sneaking up for a glass of pineapple juice. Throwing myself on the couch to see what the grownups have chosen for this weekend's crime drama. "Goodnight". Coming home to a wide open door. Calm saturday night dinners. The neighbour's cat. Singing my lungs out in the middle of the night. Little brother at the door. New books on the table every afternoon. Being alone. I've been gone for less than 3 weeks, and the things above are taking turn overrunning my mind. The only thing there's space left to think about, is how I'm absolutely not ready to go away for 10 months. Which again makes me think of how small and dependent I really am. Bragging about how I'm responsible and independent, when I'm just a needy baby. I wanna go home. I wanna stay home. But I just really really need to grow the fuck up.
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Hvem skriver det her?!Forfatteren er 23 og sier mye rart. Noe av det kan du lese her. Andre ting må du nesten få muntlig.
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December 2017
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