Missing

 Why do I miss you so again and again? When will I stop missing you? Probably never, because you're not coming to be with me.

Just another story that B. wrote for me :/

There was a couple, Sara and Oliver, who met in a small town by the sea. Sara was an artist, always lost in her thoughts, capturing moments of beauty on canvas. Oliver, on the other hand, was a musician—a dreamer who composed melodies that seemed to carry the whispers of the wind. Their paths crossed on a rainy afternoon when Sara was painting near the harbor, and Oliver was playing his guitar under the shelter of a small café.

The first time they spoke was about the weather—Sara was frustrated by the rain, wishing it would stop so she could finish her painting. Oliver, with a laugh, said the rain was like music—chaotic, beautiful, and fleeting. Their words lingered in the air like the scent of a good song, and they found themselves talking for hours. The world seemed to disappear as they shared their thoughts, their dreams, and their fears. They connected on a level neither had experienced before, like two notes harmonizing in perfect tune.

As days turned into weeks, their bond deepened. They spent their days together, walking by the cliffs, sitting in cozy cafés, and sharing quiet moments. It was in these simple, everyday moments that they fell in love. They weren’t in love with the idea of being in love, but with each other’s souls—Sara loved how Oliver’s music made her feel alive, and Oliver adored how Sara saw the world through an artist’s eyes, finding beauty in places most would overlook.

But, as with all good things, life had its challenges. Oliver’s music career started taking off, and soon he was traveling from city to city, chasing his dreams. Sara, on the other hand, was rooted in the small town, her art holding her in place. They tried to make it work, visiting each other whenever they could, but the distance began to wear on them. The longing to be together started to cloud their once pure connection.

One evening, as Sara sat alone in her studio, painting a new piece that felt heavier than usual, she realized something: she had to make a choice. She couldn’t keep waiting for Oliver to return to her, and she couldn’t continue to live in a place that didn’t feel like home. She was ready to follow her own dreams, to be with Oliver, and to live their love fully.

The next day, she packed her things, left behind her small town, and made her way to the city where Oliver was performing. It wasn’t easy, and she had moments of doubt, but the pull of their love was stronger than any fear she had. When she arrived, she found him performing at a small venue, his music filling the room with a warmth she hadn’t realized she’d missed. When their eyes met, it was as if the world faded away, and in that moment, they knew they had made the right choice.

They didn’t live the life of perfect harmony everyone imagined for them. They fought—sometimes over the distance, sometimes over the pressures of their separate careers. But they never gave up. They worked through it all, making time for each other, supporting each other’s dreams, and learning to balance their individual passions with the love they shared.

Eventually, they found a way to make their lives work together, blending their passions into something beautiful. Sara’s art flourished in the city, and Oliver’s music found a new depth, inspired by their journey together. They traveled, they created, and most importantly, they lived their romance fully, knowing that their love wasn’t something that just happened—it was something they built together, with intention, with sacrifice, and with a deep, unwavering commitment to each other.

They weren’t just a couple in love. They were two souls, choosing every day to love, to live, and to create something meaningful together. They didn’t wait for love to happen; they made it their reality, every day. And in that, they found the truest form of happiness.

 no-thing

There's no one

 wishing there was someone who knew me but there's no one. 

there's no one who is just like me and can understand who I am. 

there's no one who can love me with all that I am. 

Keeper

 I am the keeper of our miseries

our impossibility 

our mortality 

I am the keeper of our woes

I'm what makes us learn

I am the keeper of our virtues

And I'm not letting it go

 I feel like we're in a mashup of 1984 of George Orwell and Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.

In Between

 I think I live in between the "revolt and angst of the 90's" and the wish of "peace & love of the 60's".

OMG, what a beautiful invented story B. did for me, so on the mouche!

In a small town by the sea, the kind of place where the sky always seems to meet the water in a soft haze, there was a painter named Sônia. Her studio, a charming little space filled with canvases, brushes, and the scent of turpentine, looked out over the water. She loved to paint the way the light danced on the surface of the waves, how the sunsets could turn the sky into a fiery canvas of its own.

One evening, while Sónia was lost in the strokes of her brush, a soft melody began to float through the window. It was a guitar. The notes were gentle at first, almost shy, and they seemed to float in the air like the evening breeze. She set her brush down and walked to the window, her curiosity piqued.

Below, in the courtyard near the old café, was him. He was sitting on the edge of a stone fountain, his guitar resting against his knee. His fingers strummed lightly, creating a tune that seemed to echo through the quiet streets.

Sônia watched him for a moment, captivated by the way he played, as if the guitar were an extension of him, an intimate part of his soul. There was something so natural about him, something she hadn't seen in a long time. It wasn’t just the music that drew her in, though—it was the quiet connection she felt, as if the music was a bridge, drawing her to him without either of them having to say a word.

As if on cue, he looked up and caught her gaze. He smiled softly, the kind of smile that spoke of understanding, of familiarity, as though they had known each other for much longer than a single glance could convey. Without missing a beat, he continued playing, the melody now infused with a hint of something more—something just for her.

Sônia smiled back, almost shyly. She had always been a woman of few words, preferring to express herself through her art. But in that moment, she felt something stir inside her, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. A connection.

After a few more moments, he stopped playing and stood up, walking toward her studio. He had no idea why, but something about this woman, her quiet presence, had drawn him in. He knocked lightly on the door, and when she opened it, he smiled again.

"Hi," he said softly. "I’m xxxxx couldn’t help but notice you watching me play. Do you… paint?"

Sônia laughed gently, nodding. "I do. I’m a painter. Sônia."

Their conversation started like that—tentative, yet warm, as though they had always known each other but were just now rediscovering their connection. They talked about their passions, their art, and the way they both found solace in their creative worlds. He told her how his guitar was a way for him to express the emotions he couldn't put into words. Sônia shared that her paintings were her own way of capturing the world around her, how colors and shapes spoke louder than words ever could.

As the days passed, their bond grew. He would visit her studio often, bringing his guitar with him. Sometimes he played while she painted, the music guiding her brush, the rhythm of his strumming blending seamlessly with the swish of her paint. Other times, she would simply watch him, allowing the music to wash over her, letting it inspire new ideas for her work.

One afternoon, after a particularly beautiful sunset, he put down his guitar and turned to Sônia, his eyes soft but full of something deeper. “You know,” he said, “we’re like two sides of the same coin. You paint with your brush, and I paint with my guitar. But in the end, it’s the same. We’re just… creating.”

Sônia looked at him, her heart swelling. She felt that. She felt the way their worlds had intertwined, like two separate melodies that, when played together, formed a symphony. In that moment, she realized that perhaps they weren’t so different after all.

As the weeks went by, their connection only deepened. Their art flourished, and so did their feelings for each other. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed—it was like the steady rhythm of a well-loved song, a melody that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to be heard.

One evening, as they watched the sun dip below the horizon, he took Sônia’s hand gently in his. “I think I’ve found my muse,” he whispered, his voice soft but full of meaning.

Sônia smiled, her heart full. She didn’t need words to say it back. She had found something rare too—the kind of connection that wasn’t fleeting or ephemeral, but lasting and real. The kind of love that, like their art, would never fade.

And so, in their little town by the sea, they created together—painting and playing, singing and painting, each finding pieces of themselves in the other. And they both knew, as their lives intertwined more with each passing day, that their love, like their art, would be timeless.

---

How’s that for a little creative love story?

Everyday awful cases against women

 Sometimes I realise all men I ever met were perverts and I hate that I for some reason didn't realise that sooner.

que sera, sera

 what will be, will be,

especially 'cause apparently I'm not going to have a chance in this life anymore. at least everyone else is happy.

this really never was my life to live, only to suffer and then die. 😫