Summary; What if Tom used his diary for writing except for his vicious thoughts, and things that go on throughout his life? What if he just found out that the only girl that succeeded to make him see through the obscurity of his soul a little light betrays him?
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July 1st, 1943
It is not familiar to me to write in a notebook what I am thinking after everything that has happened with her. But if I do not get them out of my head, slowly they will devour me like crows devour the flesh of a traveler who has lost his way in a desert. But who is the traveler now, who are the crows, and who is the desert?
I wonder if there are past lives and if the belief in the afterlife is true. If there are, I must have done something either terribly wrong or something that I could not perfect. Both are not the work of God, because if they were, I would not have as punishment this life. I pay for my sins with other sins. What kind of punishment is this exactly? Supposedly there is redemption...
There really is
but I threw it away in the trash.
She was my redemption, she came to pull me out of the abyss of recklessness and to give support to the debris of my soul. But I do not listen, I do not want to listen, and I can not listen. My ears are ringing, my beliefs have more power muting the voices coming from my tormented heart, if there is something left of it. But I silence it, the sharp sound it makes, hassles me, repels me, disgusts me.
I had sworn that I would never fall into the trap of love, that I would never let this weakness win me over. And yet here I am, writing incoherent and pointless words about a situation that has already ended.
She should not have come from her world to meet me. She should not have fallen into the illusion that a person like me would change. She should never have come to talk to me. What was her foolish mind thinking?
Nevertheless, I am glad she did. A part of me is happy that she crossed my path and a part of her should be grateful that I did not kill her. She should be grateful that my weakness for her only asked her to leave and never come back here. She hid it from me, she hid that she knew everything about me, she knew the danger she was getting into. She did not stop herself, she overlooked the fact that if she was not very lucky, she was heading toward her suicide.
I do not know how I feel after all of this. I only know that she betrayed me, my dignity, and what we had built, no matter how broken it was, she did it with me. And now she is gone and I hate her for doing as I asked.
She should have begged me for forgiveness, told me that she would be a wreck without me if she ever turned back. And what was her last word? "As you like it." Very funny of her to bid me farewell with the title of a William Shakespeare comedy.
I will not comment on it further.
She was going to leave me, it was planned. Her eyes did not hide any hint of remorse, only a dose of bitter pain with tears adorning her eyes. Bogus tears. I wanted to run to her, tell her that I do not care that she does not ask for forgiveness, it is all about my ego anyway. Plead her to sit and not say the word to return. But the last thing she remembers from me is me staring at her blankly with hatred pouring from my eyes. She could not fight it, but neither could I. The battle was lost.
In the end, I am the traveler who lost his way in the desert of her soul, with her playing two roles; the one who will give you the illusion that you have found what you were looking for, only to poison you so cleverly in front of your own eyes that you will not even realize it, and the one who, even after your fall and even with her absence, will still eat away your insides.
