Writing is the art for the madmen, the psychopaths, neurotics, hypochondriacs, perfectionists, drinkers, smokers, lovers, the beloved, the nature obsessed, the cynics, the perceptive, and the truth-speakers and seekers.



this is "hurt"

Do you remember that I love you? What is painful is the absence I feel without you. It is all around me, everywhere. When lying on my bed, I think of us all those months ago laying next to each other. We made plans, talked about our feelings and thoughts. We thought we knew love, each other, and more painfully we thought we knew ourselves. My body aches from wanting you back in my arms. Thoughts place themselves so securely in my mind, thoughts about you—of course, familiarizing themselves with you. When my love grew for you, you and your dark features and soft and illuminated sand-dune skin, I never knew that there was a darkness within you, darker than your chocolate eyes or your coal coloured hair.

Film stills: The Great Gatsby 1974