London Diary 44

I hate her. Everything about her repulses me. When she comes close to me, my skin crawls and my gut wretches. My nostrils fill with the smell of bile and all I feel is a deep urge to be as far from her as possible. But my thoughts are occupied by her. Every second of every minute of every waking moment, she is in my thoughts. In my dreams, all of them nightmares.

And yet I cannot get rid of her. For some reason I enjoy the way she poisons my life, I revel in it. Although I am repulsed, I want more of her. I look at her and I want to harm her as well as love her. But in the end, this cannot last. This self destructive impulse that drives us, that binds us and destroys us. For whatever fate had instore for us, it was not love. Love is not like this, hateful, deceitful and cunning. There is no communication but that of sex. There is no will that binds us except lust. There is nothing that I feel for her except a wretchedness.

I see her approach me as I wait in the cold of the spring night. All hope evaporates from me. Any sense of independence is gone. Instead I feel sickened to see her. To touch her and feel her hot embrace. But yet, I do not want to let go of her..


1 Comment

Filed under london, writing

One response to “London Diary 44

  1. I am glad this is fictional. The feelings here are so inharmonious and dichotomized, and so difficult to relate to. Hope you don’t mind my saying so.

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