This is the Last Page of My Exquisite Pain

That for which we find words is something already dead in our hearts. There is always a kind of contempt in the act of speaking. - Nietszche, Twilight

(Twilight is fast becoming the most quotable book I have read/own. Every-Occasion-Nietszche. Hmm.)

So this, an annex of the previous post, is the last page of my Exquisite Pain (Sophie Calle). Made into words so I can finally pin these feelings in front of me. But I don't need Sophie Calle's numbness induced by surfeit. The words are here because I've decided they need to be taken out of my heart.

I want to laugh at my stupidity, but an overwhelming bit of me needs to run into the arms of someone who will kiss the hurt away. One whole year, Charmaine, and you haven't grown a bit stronger. ): I wish I could be the Alpha that everyone knows me to be.

But I'm definitely walking away from this a little wiser.
Should someone ask me if I've ever fallen in love, I'll say now, "I have felt for someone."
And should someone ask me what happened, I'll say now, "It was a good lesson."



(: