The Writer leaves Dublin soon. And so do I. I am at a loss, I am not sure what I will do when I can't see him everyday, hear the now familiar rise and fall of his voice. I am still in Love. I thought for a time there that I had managed to overcome it, but I haven't, not yet anyhow. I know that in time it will fade, as all loves, even great ones, do, and that one day I will look back on this fascination as a very specific, but ultimately inconsequential, moment in time. But, at this stage, it is still there, tearing at my heart a little with each hour that passes. 

I met her the other evening, for the first time. I was bitterly disappointed. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't her. He is so vibrant, and passionate, and, well, different. She is so nice, and normal, and dull. There was nothing that I could see that made it possible that he has chosen her, and only her, forever. I feel like the worst person for even thinking such things, but it was Impossible not to think them. It made me want to scream at him 'Why not me? Well as me as another.' We are the same, this I know. And it does not take copious amounts of wine to identify this, I know he sees in me a kindred spirit. But he also sees what I try so hard to hide from everyone, a hopeless, pointless sense of something better to come, but the ever growing fear that it will never eventuate. This manifests itself in a questioning nature, a lack of contentment, sometimes a feeling of isolation. It is too much of a headfuck for him, and he would be too much of a headfuck for me. I think we would ultimately destroy each other, because it could probably never last for long. It would not be better to have Loved and lost in this case. It is much better that I never loved, or fulfilled such love, at all. 

So, where does this leave me? This leaves me in the unsavoury position of having to pretend like nothing ever happened. That I never met him, that I never loved him. But that is impossible. He is text inexorably printed on my soul, like a favourite book that broke your heart, but whose words will haunt you forever. 

He is for London, and I am for Sydney. At least for the moment. I will return to Europe, and most probably live in London, most likely at the same time he lives there. But will I see him? I don't think I should. It is too dangerous. I am too old for this painful, ridiculous, sorrowful longing. I'm not a teenager prone to flights of whimsy anymore, and I should behave accordingly. 

This was a moment, that is all it was.