Emotionally empowered and happily melancholic.
Sunday, 06.10.2012 - 7:54 pm.

A few nights ago, I dreamed that Joseph asked to see me one more time before I went (came) to Chile. He was going to come over to my house with his mom to say goodbye, he was just waiting for my phone call to tell him at what time. I decided not to call him, even though I had hours to spare before the flight.

Ha. Look at my unconscious, all empowered and shit.

I can't tell if it was the same dream or a new one, but afterwards I was already in Chile and I found out he was coming to Santiago, and although it was for God knows what reasons, he also hoped to see me and that we could get back together. I got hesitant, because even though I was with Andrew by then, getting back together sounded like an old wish of mine. However, above that, I was just annoyed. I was annoyed that even though I rarely go to Santiago (I live 700 kms south), I now had probabilities, however small, to run into him and I didn't want to run into him, ever.

After that night, I vowed not to think about him anymore unless it's to write the novel. Stop thinking about that whole "Things I Should Have Replied to his Christmas Message" category and everything else. The poet friend that gave me feedback on my novel said the protagonist was clearly obssessed with this guy...and he knew right away it was about Joseph and I. No point in denying the obsession. But I've made progress and now it feels like it's in the past, like it doesn't matter that much anymore.

Except, it happened today again, that category plagued me for some time during the morning; I could make a diary just of every reply I think of and have been thinking of since the day he wrote me. But it's because I have triggers, you see, triggers that have nothing to do with Joseph but evoke the same nasty heartache he once caused in me. I feel bad out of sheer empathy for what I read and then I think of him, "hey, he made me feel like that", and so it begins. But I'm awesome at putting a stop to it now. It was haunting me this morning, but then having a warm cup of coffe and Andrew waking up brought me back to reality. Reality is nice, in that sense.

This sunday has sucked a little, though, because I've been alone all day. Andrew's been right next to me, except for a couple of hours when he went to have lunch with his grandparents, but otherwise, he's been on his laptop all day, playing and watching some major online-games tournament. Sometimes it's dangerous that we're too much alike, I suppose. I, too, took to my laptop nearly all day, to reading and working on a paper for an elective and making a comic strip. And that's been my day, with layers upon layers of clothing and next to the kerosene heater because winter is here (and I'm in anguish over homeless people and dogs/cats under this below zero weather, not quite sure how I can help solve such a daily catastrophe).

I've also been reading the book my poet friend recommended me to improve the writing of my novel. At some point I wasn't impressed but as I turn the pages, it's very, very powerful. I don't want to write a book that is considered "for women", just because it has a female lead; this one has ten female leads and it's amazing, it should be amazing for both men and women, even though it does deal with the particular burdens of women. So there's that, the making it "unisex" reading, and many other challenges that I could start solving if only I got to writing. I will tomorrow, promise.

So anyway, I closed the book and found myself overly emotional and lonely, still with Andrew one foot away. I was sad, on the verge on tears, and I asked myself what was wrong. Then I realized, it's nothing, I get like that when I'm alone. I'd be like this more often if I lived alone. I tend to melancholy and sadness, I wrote the first years of this diary fueled by melancholy, and there's nothing fucking wrong with that. I happen to enjoy it. And with that answer, I kept feeling down but not guilty over feeling down. That's just me on solitude.

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