That Day On The Beach

It felt so real. Rain, leaves, make love (but it was a passion, or only superficial. Did not feel any pleasure. I felt as if I was still twenty years. Among xenophobic Living in South Africa, and people of Johannesburg, felt winter acute arrival). And then there was the kiss. Something in me died (although I've always felt a succession of deaths after writing, and I went cold). However, there was something that was still absent.
I woke up then. How was I going to put it into words? There is no impact on the astral plane. You lose everything, if you think the desire to be simplistic. Oh, no, it's much, much more complicated than that. So complex that scientists are studying North America. I recently left my dream depressed. The disease returned. There were signs. A gay man with beautiful eyes and delicate hands passed me in the street. I wanted to find the confidence I saw in his arrogance on the page. I thought if I could do that would explain everything, especially what he had dreamed. He needed to know why the novel was for me like a lighthouse. I always swam away from him, retired, sinking. You might wonder why not rooted?

It was scary. I could not set the time or the place. Where was I? I felt as if I had disappeared into another dimension. Maybe you can dream strongly do this right? This man, in my dream, so I reminded him of someone he had known long ago. One teacher had me in love. Madly in love. Naive and sexual experience became my world for almost two years. It was an investment. It was a mission. It would be late for the love of my life. But the dream became terror. Dreams are not real, and I was happy dreams. I was unaware of the pitfalls I experienced when I was awake. When I lived reality. When I say happy, I mean, I felt no fear of anything real or imagined. No fear psychosis or anxiety hypomania, physical tremors accompanying hallucinatory images. There was no darkness. In my dreams, no longer had any experience of suffering, or depression, or the rigid strength of madness, and mercy flight of its high attention. Be on suicide watch. There was no night land. There were just ordinary people. Regular fall in love, making love, talking and having conversations about love people.

I would dream of all these things. What was my subconscious trying to tell the actor aware of himself in me? If discrimination? I have to do something else with my life other than writing? I have put aside my writing rituals, using cooking as therapy, and in the world, find a husband, I have these children down the yellow brick road, sunny road, and accept that happiness has taken a lot commitment, too much energy, time, but just do it anyway. Do brilliantly. Do very well. Do it wisely. Do it without effort. If I could make a cake chiffon chocolate without effort, could not be easier to educate their children in the same way? If I could make a lasagna bolognese or very well, following the instructions carefully handwritten sister, I'll make a good wife for someone, but that means I have to admit. This means that you would have to undergo questioning, questioning how my mother had "touched" me as a child. Bathroom, we take together. She always leaves the door open. Call me while my father slept, and ask me to wash your back. I do not want to remember. I feel terror every time someone touches me.

We will not go there. I do not want to think. Please. Please. I ask nicely. But she did not understand. Poli. Cultivated. Highly favored. Held in high esteem. How on earth could hope to understand the physical aberration of sexual violence? The damaged psyche, and the spirit of the vulnerable child raised in an abusive environment Day after day slowly become complicity programmed to live with both denial and pain. The explicit rape, graphic when he could not imagine my world violence. The world of abandonment and neglect. I thought my father knew. I think he did. That is why he had obstacles in my world of childhood. I thought we were protected, protected against children who were rough. In retrospect, I became wise. Instead, I wanted to be like my mother when I grew up, but I've never been so elegant and beautiful like her. Ever. I did not succeed. I did not have my parents in this regard.

Skin tissue of the skin, such as sleep, like water in wild places. I did not need to show me that you love me, I need you to tell me. I need it like air, like self-pity, like air fractured wrinkled hands remember my Ouma by arthritis, but I know that dear lover. I know we will not be together forever. There's a part of me that is terrified to let go of you. Seeing that you went into the world of the living to the dead. The underworld filled with the maximum of biblical proportions. Do this. I'm a failure. As a woman, I am a failure, because it would fail to raise their children, or dance with you in the moonlight, or innocent as you enter me, my hair framing the face. Know it. You know nothing about me, but I could play with you, or give my physical body, sealed, leaving his body glistening with sweat, and lying next to you in the dark watch you sleep. Looking again until the early hours of the morning. I know I'll stop loving you. I do not blame you. His children. Show me pictures of them. Show me pictures of angels. Show me a photo of your sweet love light. You know my state now.

Call me if you want to talk or have a good time. I will listen to all your problems. I will love you like that. I'll make my world for a night. I guess his wife is nothing like me. Is it something like my mother, I wonder? Women who are just like my mother always this need to be loved. Women who have nothing but my mother still terrifies me. I am nothing of this beautiful elegant woman in the picture has his arm around you. It makes you really happy? If it is them'm happy for you. Do not miss. You do not want to know me, believe me. You do not want to hear stories about my childhood, my competitive spirit, the success of everything we have learned not to succeed in marriage, however, but we have gone through life brilliantly with everything against us. We succeeded, to my brothers and me through thick and thin, frail dreams, goals that our parents had for us very well, but not as good as I would have liked for my own life. No elixir a sunny way for me and my sister. Have a heart and is not yet awake.

The only place I'm not a fool, is where I feel safe in his loving arms here. Here, I miss the hell of Dante, genocide and the Holocaust. Let me forget Rwanda and Auschwitz. Bergen-Belsen and Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. Let me forget this day at the beach. Leading the caesarean scar, play as if all points would fall in the air, and I do not exist in this world. I would have gone without a trace. Help me understand the lack of maternal love. Get over. Get over. Get over. My heart sang as a teenager my name would be read. I would make my way to the scene and the director would like to give something beautiful. A certificate. Intelligence was never enough. A vague sort of beauty, an attractive personality was never enough. Please, please, do not go there of all places at once, I'm the navigation. My own personal hell was what people called Invisible Children. I'm Alice. I have a Cheshire cat. I live in my own wonderland, and I'm sure he does not leave anyone take that away from me. I do not want to remember the lack of maternal love. The tranquility of the door, which led to the adoption of promiscuity.

The hair was still damp at the neck, curling little steam. With the smell of soap, I washed my hands back in circles. I remember his hunched shoulders. She shrugged (he was hiding her breasts, she was insecure, or was tired of her husband raunchy manic-depressive). After dressing she show her caesarean scar. Tell me how the doctor took me off of him as Jonah and the Whale. Now an adult, I have more personality than my father. Do not touch me. Do not touch me. Do not look at his face. You'll need to be in the dark if you really want to make love with me. Why I want, I first? Do you expect my permission? What are the conditions of love, to be boyfriend and girlfriend, mother says he is tired, can not read my essay. I am not a child of Buddha. I am a child of something minor. Automatic that day. First, I'm going down on you. In front of you on my hands and knees, I'll ask you humiliate me. I will, I promise you. A psychologist does not come with multiple choice questions where you need to color the white spot on the side of the correct answer.

To tell you the truth, I did not want to become a woman in real life. I do not find at all attractive. Not interesting to me. Like how the words of Los Angeles moves me. Its waves makes me feel good vibes. It seems that married life would give up the life of a writer. I have to put a pretty face and smile in photos. What if he drinks? What if he smokes? How many children do you have? Like red meat? Do you like exotic dishes such as couscous, I'll have to become experts in trying new recipes, or I want to eat out, try and chic restaurants, we ate there every night, or is it a steak and a man like my father grandfather once was. He had two children with another woman. My grandmother persevered. She was a strong woman. I could not be as strong as if my husband has found love with another woman, and brought her to bed. My mother taught me something and everything about the amazing women. How seed handling in the eye of man has been sown. How different personality of a woman is a man. Your sensuality. The Second Sex femininity and sexuality.

How man must be forgiven for thinking that his own will, his identity, his psyche, his ego, frail mother, and becomes much more sensitive now that she has grown. Now the mother of a man became elderly, ended in a house, the higher your salary can buy, he becomes aware of his own mortality. Everyone should be encouraged to grow something. To plant something. To feed something on a piece of land. Plant a tree or forest. My mother did. He spent hours working hard in his garden. We had a rich fragrant garden apartheid in South Africa and South Africa post-apartheid. It is the triumph of the mummy. She had no close female relationships. For me, it is exotic. As an adult, I have no close female relationships. I should have seen it coming. Instead of marking a milestone. Why I do not like mom? That day on the beach, I have called thee by thy name. Why not you turn around and you expect me to contact you? You made me hate you. But he could not hear me. And I felt like a kid in time for you again. As the day you miss me at my extra lesson, my essay.

The day we did not have enough money to pay for our food (it was a Sunday).

Wore the heels of the church. He looked flawless as ever. I wore white socks. How ever spotted her pink creamy red lips, which found its way into the folds of her lips was still a small miracle for me). You, you left me standing next to our cart full of bags of food that we last four weeks of the month. I returned home I was twenty minutes from the mall to get the credit card because Dad does not have enough money in your account or salary has not been paid yet yours. Vincent, my cousin who stays with us because it was a transition course at the local university, who was older, more mature than me, turned his head, and walked away from me. He ignored my plaintive look. And I wish that I would have expected of me. It would have been nice of him. But Vincent was not good for me. Only until it finds the sunlit path of having a spouse, raising two children of their own. We buy flowers? Your wife India, expensive perfume? Did you know that your son and daughter know that night was absorbed by eroticism, download from the Web, but that violent pornography. I guess that's what everyone does. Find electrical women.

When it is the first to realize that? This desire. As the desire I feel when I'm not your business, but in my dreams. Of course, I remember everything. The heat of the day. Dust. Sunday morning. I remember the cashier smiled a smile, and I looked away. I remember the young man barely older than my cousin who had been shopping in the car. He looked into her eyes. Cool men as girls get older, right? Right. Beautiful children are still surrounded by an aura of mystery of sexuality. Are girls grow up to be promiscuous or virtuous? Would you like to get a degree and change the world around them, or make a man happy, meeting their needs, toasted bread, butter, breakfast, have children, be miserable, drinking too much of this merlot, cabernet or and lose their appearance no matter how smart they are in the beginning? In its formative years. The women do not find romance pornography. They want flowers and expensive perfumes. They want a house big enough for your family to grow, to fulfill the desires of the heart. Everything is expensive, dear, you see.

At the top, you see, you see. But I'm easy. I am your lover relief. I am your deliverance. I have a natural killer instinct. My physical body is what I want, need, desire. I am your conquest. Although you never know anything about my spiritual poverty, to just feel insatiable. Tender is the Night, my love. We met on a beautiful summer afternoon. It felt like a summer day. I wanted to brush his black hair framing her facial features, eyes. Of course, I immediately fell in love with you, walking beside her, I found that, in agreement with you, I followed your pace, your warm life, his royal dignity. You need to understand what I felt was gratitude. I stopped thinking about the coming of death. The fulfillment of desire that sometimes carry with me in my darkest hours, and thoughts of despair. When it comes to waves, formed by cutting through the quiet light, I think of you, of us. I watched very carefully. How would punctuate his sentences with a hand gesture and all I could think of was that the hand on the wrist or hand in my hand. All I could think was that the hand on the shoulder, on my lower back.

Everything I dreamed was that the hand on the nape of my neck. And barriers of childhood no longer exist. I became angelic, ethereal, otherworldly, and you were my reward for all the effort without commitment and hard work of restoration had put in my adult life. It made me feel pure, washed all my sins in time. I felt very encouraged me. And then came the turning points, otherness stirred revolution, individuality and informed imagination. You started to inspire me. We did not have to talk for hours, or childhood. Thank you. Thank you for everything you have done for me, and above all, his generosity, for the long hours we spent in the other company. Thank you for the laughter aroused in me, and I am delighted that might be valuable in some way the same thing for you Regalado. Thank you for your talents. For the transmission of their knowledge, life experience, his influence on me. Invisible to wipe my tears, my rain and my moods were like a season of bad weather, inspiration, and all that is in the picturesque landscapes of my happiness. I know what you are now.

Some days, the negativity is still there. I know it always will be. It is a fact of life. But the positive side is also a fact of life. Gold, gold. Always golden, glorious as my laptop. There is nothing I can do about it, and there are a number of men in an endless line. I know you'll never be for an indefinite period in my life, but I will tell you as long as possible everything they know about the world around them. They accept me for who I am on paper I decided to play while I'm with her. The petulant child, submissive teen girl kid or an adult woman in her thirties, who now accept their infertility, education and culture as only she can. In his own words. It's called self-control, order and blurred lines that ensure all legal aspects of the issue. Not that I want to forget the decisions I made ​​in my twenties, not that I want to forget my depression, not that I want to forget my favorite area of my career, my choice, they were the living sufficient elections if promiscuity is a way of life, or phase, or why it comes more naturally to some women does for others. It is no less true. I remember.

I will always love you. It goes without saying. What can I say, I offer as proof of my life, my love, my desire, my desire to surrender, and that allows me to live, love, desire and the will? And now it comes down to this. Yes, I was always going to come around this. I know why I had to meet you. Both. I accepted what he had to learn, and it's time for me to move on. You are not my property. Me and my Shakespeare Keats. I know why we could never find. But I accepted it. Why I had to dissolve in the euphoric happiness, and my mind will be purified by him. All coming back to me now so intense clarity of thought. Romance comes back to me. I'm wiser now. Shelved that day on the beach in memory. A past that is dead to me. But two. Each of you will never be dead to me. Wise thoughts. Wipeout wisdom. She loves me, my mother, but she did. She wanted nothing to me, as the two who did. One of each, old fashioned, predisposition gentleman as introverted, the other like crazy. I do not think of you as the former.

I never thought of you as an old (man can be shy when he made ​​known his intentions, which were really after in the end, I did not understand, let me explain why, or explain to the best of my capacity on this story, but not a story. Because you can probably read between the lines. reading I am writing to reach you. maybe one day you will get this), only the older, wiser, much more advanced that it was. His skin was a fabric. You kill that day on the beach. Any negative of my childhood. The lack of maternal love. His lack of desire in me as a child, teenager and young adult. Conversation with me as an adult woman filled his own needs and desires. You are my turning point. You are the inspiration behind the leak of poetry I write, and send in the universe. You are my light. My Southern Cross. You are my lighthouse. -I am reduced to an "interdependent thing built a psychological framework. The room in which I'll leave the rest of the wizarding world, when I want to be alone, or when I want to write. Separation with the original default, and throw in the spiritual world.

He had become another female world, ethereal, rather than just exist in the reality of this world. I'm in a shamanic otherness Cinderella in this world, you cling to my writing new rituals. More commitment to the invisible. There's a new man in my life. There will always be a new man in my life. I do not remember the love, adoption, or even make the appropriate adjustments. Maybe this time it will not destroy what was given to me by God. You are my manual. You're my survival guide. I now believe that another take his place, and I still love him, but this time this love, romanticism, to be held at the difference, and I feel safe again. And this man is a sage. This man will be a scribe. This man is going to be an artist. This man will do many things in your life, and I will be by your side as you build your kingdom, empire after empire (if that is what we face. This is why you need to feel Kill a succession after I write something, put it away before sending in the world, such as smoke signals of a shaman. therefore you have this desire, feel the pain of the mind sharp and feels anchored by sensitivity.

And love, and humiliation, burning, shame, shame, blessed abundance of wisdom that comes with it. Looking forward to it. If the glove fits. And especially the measure of everything. Maybe the next man is a poet. Rimas cosmos telepathically with his eye to the telescope for each star in the fabric of the universe. Will it be under your own domain name? Will you be alert to his interiority, his humanity, humility, his own light depression, and attempted size, or achieve great things? You can talk, and talk, and talk of his empire, and empires who want to conquer, and the fact that you want to go in building a kingdom. I'll be quiet. Rests her head on his shoulder, sitting next to you, be your pretty woman, if that's what it takes. Go down, down in the depths of despair, moments of humiliation (not mine), the absolute desolation (mine not yours), and I'll sacred golden finger band as if m 'belonged. Imagine all sorts of things (that is what makes me a dangerous woman. This is why I will never be yours for a long time). Can you imagine all the difficulties of mental illness? How will I endanger your world, your way of life?

Instead let me imagine the pure light of his angelic face, and how to clear the memory. Let me clear the brightness outside your dear face until once again as a blank slate. I guess white lace wedding, the happiest day of my life was mine and that our union with God, in front of guests at the church where our children were baptized, what do you say to that? The cat got your tongue? Are you strong enough to stay with me, my man, take me, and that disease? The stories are for books, Creative Writing, publishers and editors. Despair is for poets tortured. I can act to death, sometimes with some success. I can produce many, many wonderful things with my feminine intuition, and my feminine understanding and sensitivity, recipe swap, torture spices in the kitchen, wipe the counters with a smile of finesse, but I'll never see that side of me for a long time unfortunately. Soon I will take my bed. I need to rest. While voice rain on my parade, rain down on me like coins in the subway (Metro Ezra Pound). And I go to Orlando Alba, the face of love camping in the mysterious desert in the desert surrounded by bushes, and heat waves. So it is for me. It's time to say goodbye.

It is time for me to go carefree frustration. I can take hours to do chores, or not at all. From lover is such sweet sorrow, but like everything I do very well. I am impressed when I move in the world of the ordinary, of the real world of ordinary madness very exquisite ordinary madness. Need books. What I do not understand is that I need my books. Without them, to be honest, I feel quite lost and not have the energy to take a shower, wash your hair, and brush the tangles from her. I need information. Everything is good. Take this shroud away from me. Darkness. Negativity. Depravity. Give instead of purity. Do not know why you do not make sense to you when a lot of sense to me. I need lots of them. I need around me. Covet them. The need to achieve. Need to make sense of the words. I have to find something to do. To fulfill my personal space, time in hospital, I go bored or high or low. Depressed that I can not go, did you drink at any time of the day or time. And in my senior script and poor performance. There are only so more inspiring.

No more burning. Once childhood govern me like that day on the beach with my mother has always governs. She danced away from me, out of my reach. And I die a fate worse than death. Not all children who wanders from the beginning is the lack of love of the mother? I always rewind the death of the cassette. And I dance too slowly to the music. I can never reach its stylish. Although I wish both of us could be watching TV together at this time. Although it would be reading (immersed in a novel), and would be watching the World Cup. But the reality of the situation is that you probably are. And the woman in his life is his wife. Confess. Confess whistle. You will be under no obligation to be there, relapse in recovery, but I wish. But I want you to know that, without telling me. Do you care about me, honey? Honey, it is not necessary. I do not want your pity. There is no cure for anyway. No cure for this chronic disease. Electricity and I'm very well together. We are one to the other. It goes right through like a knife. You put that sword against my wrist and what else to do than to put pressure on him. Divine blood.