2.20

I’m really tired of the melodrama of life. At the end of the day I can’t even decide on in which language I shall write my diary. I write in a certain language to avoid certain readers and another to avoid others. I write in English to run away from certain aspects of myself and in Chinese to run away from the other aspects of myself. Writing in a foreign language is always a good way to keep a secret. Because I wouldn’t be too proud to revisit my writing in English, I can spare myself from the embarrassment.

When I think of him I find myself speechless in every language I know. It was rather a strange experience when I still imagined to speak to him, and that he’ll understand me like no one ever had. But I am in horrible despair now, yet simultaneously relieved from that tension, that constant guessing, always uncertain what to say and what to do next. Now that I know I had successfully ruined it, that I better admit the all was my illusion at last, I am finally at peace. Secretly I smiled at the cruelty of life, of how I wasn’t so alone in this ugly scheme after all, that the the ones I so loved, crazily, had all turned out to be just the same as those have never I had no hope for.

So there was no great tragedy or comedy in life after all. All there was were part myth, part melodrama. Now thinking back I can’t believe some of the things I did out of the perhaps blindness of the moment. I would however never regret what I did, wrong as it were. This is what I call melodrama. Useless self-conceit. But how I write to you, even now, and still cries for that empty space you never entered, is a myth. You represented a complexity that was beyond my reach. I know I was only wasting my time and hurting myself. And how selfish would it be for me to say “I love you”. So there, I never said it. So I’m saying it for myself now. I love you so much.

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