essays. self-therapy sessions

As always … i’ve tried to reveal my thoughts and feelings.

Writing … and writing … cause somehow i was actually believing i get rid of this sickness i am feeling … while near her.

And … to make you laugh while introducing to my writings … i should probably mention that right into this morning this damn woman … I’ve written so, so many times about … told me … “You're like a hysterical woman on her period—except yours never ends.”

So … i’ve smiled.

Then laughed.

She was probably right … but the real meaning of those words was that … she saw me from a totally different perspective today.

Disliking me.

Illusory believing it’s her fundamental right to disrespect me … cause …

Aha … i wasn’t really worthy of her respect.

Not today.

Or … not anymore.

But …

Well … things were as they were.

And still are.

For sure … nothing will change quite soon.

Not with me.

Because … i still feel sick.

I mean … intoxicated of this stupid woman which i call poetically … Madame Charade.

Writing as a form of self therapy … hoping it’s the last book of a series of more than 100 books about her.

The conclusion?!

I guess … it’s all about studying the nonsense which is stamped in front of my face … and revealed of all my actions.

Being nothing than a clown … which is actually claiming that is … a writer.