Sunday, 9 September 2012

They came from 10 000 ft, on a possibility street

Slowly. In. Out.
Remember to breathe.
Remember that no fight has ever changed him.
Remember that you might need the demon's signature someday. Not him. Never him. Need left when the door closed behind him.

He does not notice that I am not listening, never listening, merely tolerating the "ja" at the end, the accounts of weekends spent, the undertone of "how long will you still be studying something useless".

This is the reason I do things for myself, not some underlying feminist association. We do it because there was no one to do it for us. I am not complaining about some hardship, some loss, some sense of abandon. Instead of feeling the need to be saved all the time, instead of wasting my time fighting you about the disappointment that you are, well, I'd rather be fighting for myself.

This is is not a "not waving, but drowning" situation. After all, I can freestyle pretty well.

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