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Hey all,
I've met my twin soul a bit more than three years ago, and I will share with you my love story in several entries. I used to identify myself with INFP and I believe she behaves as an INFJ. It's a bit long, but I believe it's worth sharing. I've written only the first few chapters, and will continue writing it fast or slowly, depending on my inspiration.


The dream

It all started when I was fourteen and I made a dream

The most striking dream of my life

So strong that I somehow knew waking up that it must be real, that it was actually real

In that dream, a girl was holding me and I was holding her, all our force clenched in this embrace

And it felt like the most perfect and complete embrace that could exist on earth

In her arms I felt entirely at peace, entirely accepted for who I truly am, entirely loved

My schoolmates sniggering was in an instant blown away by this powerful wind

It didn’t matter if people didn’t like me, if they made fun of me because I was different, because I didn’t know how to behave like them, because I didn’t want to conform

It didn’t matter if I felt so lonely and misunderstood, if I had no real friend except my family

No, nothing mattered before the potency of this dream love

In that brief instant I understood there existed a love so deep and powerful it upheaved our existence

In that brief instant I knew that I had to find her no matter what

And I started looking for my dream girl everywhere



I somehow knew I would recognize her

Not because I would be physically attracted to her, no it had nothing to do with physical attraction

But because my heart would bleed and cry and dance when seeing her, when looking in her eyes

I knew it would be of an intensity that surpassed everything I witnessed around me

In my teen years, I sometimes was of a deeply melancholic state of mind, without knowing why, without realizing that it was unnatural for a young boy to be so thoughtful, to have such a brooding mood

The only thought that brought real sunshine and warmth to my life was that of meeting her

Each time I went to the New Year’s mass with my parents, I prayed to find her

And for long, long years I didn’t

There was no trace of her

Anywhere



With time, I overcame my natural shyness that when I was a teenager made me stutter with everyone around at school, so afraid was I of my peers’ judgmental eyes

I didn’t know how to speak in slang as everybody else, I wasn’t capable of chitchatting

Before speaking I had to prepare the sentences I would say in my mind beforehand

And each time I cursed my stupidity, how socially unfit I felt I was

Later, much later, I became much more at ease with myself when I understood that speaking with others was not an exam I had to pass, but more like a discussion to discover more about them, about their life experiences, about the secret book of their soul

I wanted to become a writer and so I knew I needed these interactions, and I started asking many questions, carefully listening to answers

And in few years I met many close friends, as many as I didn’t have in my entire life, and with each of them the relationship seemed meaningful to me

And yet, despite not being lonely anymore in the physical plane, I continued feeling this loneliness of the heart

I never dated with any girl because each time I would get to know someone from close I’d understand it wasn’t the right person for me

I would go out of my comfort zone, speaking to strangers out of the blue, in the library, in public transportation, each time I’d notice a beautiful face

For I believed that I would recognize her from her face

But each time I was disappointed, the whole did not feel right, they didn’t have the sensitivity I was looking for



Almost a decade passed until I met her…


--

The shadow

What’s missing in my story is the shadow

The shadow of my words and my feelings

The shadow of my teen years

These things about myself that I didn’t accept, that I didn’t want to show to the world, because I was too ashamed and afraid

Since my early teens, I’ve been attracted to slight weight gain in women

That was the window through which I lived my sexuality

I fantasized about girls I knew, or a girl of my imagination, eating more than she should and putting on a bit of weight

I imagined how she would feel when she had eaten too much, when for a long time she remained skinny despite overeating

How after a couple of months she’d start gaining a few pounds and her clothes would become slightly tighter

Then with time she’d take more weight and her clothes would become even tighter, three, five, seven kilograms

And then I’d fall asleep and my fantasy would stop

And it would start anew the next morning, or the next night before falling asleep, with the same skinny girl or another one

It helped me not to think, to forget for an instant all my anguishes, and it awakened my body like nothing else could

I imagined the girl body pressed against mine, her forms pushing into me

Or I imagined being within her body, witnessing her change, her widening shapes, her snug sensation at her lower belly

Later, I started reading stories on the net of girls who had inadvertently put on a bit of weight

Some complained about it, others liked it, others even planned to take on some weight

And I always carefully canceled the history of my research

What if my father or uncle found out about it? I would die of shame, of guilt

Normal sexuality never presented any interest for me

I never watched porn

In a way, it had become too widely accepted and crude, it was not something progressive or transgressive as it was perhaps for my parents

I was uncomfortable with the idea of naked bodies

And the few times I had tried to look out for such content over the net to reassure myself I was not abnormal, I had been disgusted

For those reasons, I never learnt to reach an orgasm on my own

All my pleasure consisted in my intellectual fantasies of slight weight gains

And they could go on for hours and hours sometimes, when I was bored during long winter afternoons with no good book in which I was engrossed

And when I had periods in which these thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone, I worried if I were normal, if I could ever live in a healthy relationship

Deep down I knew I could, but I failed at reconciling what I saw as two distinct parts of myself

Me, the sensitive boy enamored of words and nature and true love versus me who could only think of fattening girls for my own pleasure

I knew that the second part of me was more a fantasy than a reality, something that was not as strong as my passion and ideals

And yet it was ever present, and even when I managed to block it for few months it came back whenever I was sad or tired or slightly depressed by my studies

I soon learnt to use it, or drown on it, whenever I had too many exams, too much to study

For a while, I could forget about everything while living my fantasy

At that time, I discovered there actually were videos on the net of women and girls who had this same fantasy of mine and put on weight intentionally

And I started watching them, and found out that there was a thing called fetish, and that many people had fetishes of one sort or another, some much worse than mine that was only weird

And it reassured me slightly, even though it still was a weight on my heart, on my mind



Each thing on earth has a shadow

A shadow is not something real and tangible

It is here without being here

Its shape is ever shifting according to sun’s course

And whatever are the properties and qualities of this object

Its shadow is always graying, sometimes darkening

We too have a shadow

The shadow of our smiles and our dreams

The shadow of our hearts

An ill-defined shadow, and yet shadow it is

We cannot get rid of this shadow as long as we live on earth

But we can understand what hides in it

We can learn not to fear it

Clearly distinguishing the true object, the unchanging soul, from its deceptive, ever-changing shadow

At the end, shadow only is a bit of smoke that sticks to surfaces

Blow it away and let it not worry you

--

First encounter


I met her when I expected the least

I was participating to a halloween party in which I knew nobody

Because of this drive to meet the girl of my dream, I often went to parties even if I didn’t feel at ease there

And I went alone because most of my friends didn’t enjoy these rumorous places

And because I thought to myself that if I’d better be alone to be free of my movements, my words, if I met her

So I went to parties, three or four times a year, each time swearing to myself it was the last

I erred like a ghost there, barely drunk a beer, barely dared to dance, never met anyone

My relationship with my body had never been good

It’s not that I didn’t like it, but I felt too awkward, tense, stiff and I thought that other judged me on that

On not knowing how to dance, how to accost a group of persons with ease, on not behaving appropriately, in a cool fahionable confident way which eluded me entirely

So that night I wasn’t expecting much

As usual I’d walk around the night club, trying to catch a pretty girl’s eyes, but never daring to speak to anyone as they all were accompanied and never returned my gaze

I didn’t want to go, so engrossed was I in my reading, but forced myself to as I had bought a sailor hat for a disguise the week before

And so I went, got lost on my way, entered the place

And when I entered, I looked behind me and met her eyes

It was very brief, and I didn’t feel anything special

But she had looked at me in the eyes, and she was alone

I instantly told to myself, if you don’t speak to her right now, you won’t speak to anybody of the night shy as you are

So along the entrance corridor, I breathed deeply to gather my courage of speaking to a stranger and spun my head and greeted her

We started speaking of unremarkable things, the countries we were originary from, our respective fields of studies

As it was an erasmus party, we all were foreigners coming from different places

I didn’t think much of her at the time, and as we ordered a beer I was almost sure she would leave me to join her friends

Until we started discussing of our passions in life, and I discovered that she loved reading, and that her favorites were also mine

And then she told me her dream was writing a historical or fantasy novel

And I was speechless, and all what I could say was me too, me too, and I felt almost foolish in how I mirrored her replies to my questions

I had started writing a historical novel taking place in Lebanon the year before

And somehow I intuitively knew that my dream girl would love reading, and that she would be sensitive to writing too

But I didn’t know she would be a writer too

Who, like me, had chosen a field of study that had little to do with our strongest passion

I looked a lot into her eyes and felt at ease with her, even danced a little without feeling ridiculous, and we smiled a lot to each other

At first I had not found her pretty, I had even thought her face disharmonious

But as we started speaking about who we truly were the disharmony wiped away from her face and all what remained was beauty and intensity

She told me that she was writing about life changing encounters

And for the first time in a very long time I contemplated with myself the possibility of falling in love with someone, with her

And at that moment, she told me she had a boyfriend back in her home country

And I felt it was a cold shower on all my nascent hopes, and I felt frustrated by what I considered as an unfairness

What should the only girl I am genuinely interested in happen to be already engaged

And I left the party with little more than her full name and the vague promise that we might encounter each other again, or might not as the campus is very wide


--

Falling in love

During the next few days, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of the writer girl I had met at the Halloween party

I sent her one of my favorite short stories, the prisoner, and she sent me one of hers, the tale of an immortal character who wanted to be delivered from her immortality

And two weeks later we met again, for lunch under a bright November sun

And we spoke and spoke

It was mostly me asking questions and her telling me about her life, about the divorce of her parents when she was seven year old that had left her a deep wound, wiping off all her memories between seven and ten

And she told me how until a couple of years backward she had been a library rat spending all her time reading, barely socializing

And while she was speaking, I kept on asking myself who she truly was, and if she was the right person for me

After a while she abruptly decided she had to go study

But before that and to my surprise, she said that she had really enjoyed our time together and proposed to see each other at the same time the week after

For two other weeks in a row, we met, and each time I saw another facet of her personality

And I found it complicated to add up the different parts together

After the brightness of our first encounter, I had been slightly disappointed by her texts I had read, wondering if she was truly the writer she pretended to be

And yet, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking to her, and waited anxiously for our short weekly meeting

The fourth week, she told me she was too busy with her studies to meet me

But I didn’t want to wait, she was an exchange student after all and would soon enough leave

And that convinced me to propose her to go out during the weekend, when before all our planned meetings had taken place within university context

But I was too afraid of being rejected to write her a direct, straight to the point message

Instead I wrote her a short fantasy story, an idea that had stemmed to my mind one night after attending a mass, something I rarely do

And to my surprise she replied in the same way and agreed to meet on Saturday evening

And we met, and again I was disappointed by the disharmony on her face that reflected harshness and preoccupation

But as she spoke and spoke about what mattered to her heart the most, the fire of passion shone into her eyes, and emotions softened her face

And suddenly she had the most beautiful face I had ever seen on earth

It was a strong and strange moment to see her and to see her reflection in the mirror close to her

At that moment, I understood that was her true face, when she was in harmony with herself, with her dream

And her face reminded me of something old, very old

And I could see myself too in her face

She broke that moment, proposing to go out from the café where we had been sitting

And once outside she told me my intensity put her ill at ease, and that my gaze and my prolonged eye contact intimidated her

We crossed the town toward its height where she lived, where I had never been

She told me of her fascination for large empty spaces, and how it bored her boyfriend when she spoke her impressions

It reassured me in a way, telling myself that he surely wasn’t the right person for her, and yet it saddened me for her

We climbed on spaced stairs on a narrow winding path

And I noticed she climbed very slowly

And for the first time I felt real tenderness for her

I felt all her vulnerability, and for the first time in my life I had the craving to take the hand of a girl, take her hand

But I didn’t

And we continued our slow climb

She told me she was not used to hills and mountains, as her country was flat, but she loved them

And when we arrived on top of the hill, she said that I was the person that listened the best she had ever encountered

And she added that she knew she was egoistic to speak and speak and speak and never ask me to, but she said she really needed to express herself

Then, I understood she was truly sensitive in the way I had imagined, dreamed

Of course, she did mistakes, she was egoist sometimes, but she knew it in her heart and acknowledged in such an earnest way

We continued walking till the entrance of the outdoors parking lot of her building, and there she stopped and bid me goodbye, asking me to be careful on the way back

And we started leaving, each from our side

When suddenly she called me back

And I walked slowly to her

And she said, very slowly

You are only the second person I meet with whom I like to write in this way

The sentence was strong, but the way she said it was way stronger

Behind these words, I heard true love

And at that instant my heart started beating fast, very fast

And I thanked her almost silently and I walked away

Listening to the music of Einaudi, and feeling my dancing heart that sung of love

At the precise moment she had spoken the magic words

I had fallen in love for her with all my heart

And I went back home in the sweetest of moods

And wrote her several messages in the next days continuing on the storyline I had started

She never replied

I proposed to see each other again

She didn’t show any sign of life

I asked her if her stock of paper and ink had ended

To no avail

And I lived horrendous nights in which I could barely sleep

She had bewitched me

And abandoned me to the loneliness of my fate

Of this love for her that was so deep it hurt

I managed to see her another time

When instead of writing her poetic lines

I said I had brought her a novel for Christmas, the tenant of Wildfell Hall

She didn’t offer any explanation for not replying, instead reproaching me of having bought her a present which put her ill at ease

And she behaved with friendliness but way more distantly than the night I saw her true face

The meeting barely lasted ten minutes, before our ways parted for one month of vacation

A month of silence, despite having tried to write her a long mail once

A month of waiting, as I could not resolve myself on forgetting her

For the briefest instant, I had touched love, and it hurt so much to have lost it already, which I found incomprehensible and unfair

-

All these events are three years old, so it is only the beginning of our story.

I invite you to check out my blog for the drawings that go with each of these chapters, and to check out other of my writings if you've enjoyed reading this erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com
 

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Writing together

And the Christmas vacations passed without getting any sign of life from her

And I cursed my over-enthusiasm that had led me to write her too many messages in a row the last week before the holidays

So elated was I to finally touch love, that I had forgotten what prudence and moderation meant

During the vacations I wrote her once, telling her about myself, my relationship with my home country, Lebanon, where I was staying

I didn’t tell her of my nascent love for her not to scare her off, but I told her that I wanted to get to know her more, and hoped that our friendship would develop and deepen

Back to Switzerland, I had almost lost any hope of getting a reply from her

I had told the story to my mother, and she encouraged me to write her yet another time to try seeing her before she left for good

For that, I had to go against my pride, my pride of writing her again when she didn’t reply, my fear of getting this time a firm rejection

And I wrote her, a brief, prudent message, and she replied saying that the sheer length of my letter had daunted her, but she was and is happy to hear from me, and sure, why not to see each other

And so we went to spend a day in a small medieval town capped by snow

My questioning that had stopped for a moment after the magical instant in which I had started loving her resumed

Was she the right girl for me as I had thought? Was she the one I had waited for all my life?

How could she say to be a writer and yet be scared of the length of my message?

It didn’t make much sense

Deep down, I wondered if she was afraid of loving me too

If she was afraid because she already was in a relationship in her home country

Especially that her parents split up had left her with an aversion for conflicts and separations

I couldn’t and didn’t want to make anything about it

The snowy medieval city under a bright sun, and the brown and red hills around covered by leafless trees were beautiful

But our time together was not as magical as the night before the vacations

I did not see her true face again, until I wondered if I had ever seen it

If it had only been a catch of my imagination and my whimsical hopes

Back in the train, she told me more about her current relationship and past inexperience

And asked me if I was currently in love with someone

I hesitated, and replied no

To my defense I could say I wasn’t sure yet if I loved her

But the truth is that I’d have been too afraid to tell her I loved her, and to hear her saying the words I didn’t want to hear, the ones that would cut all my hopes down

No, I preferred to live with my wild hopes of secret love, than with the harshness of reality

And after I replied and said I had never been in a relationship, I saw her face soften and her eyes almost moistened

And she told me she wished her current boyfriend had never kissed any girl before her

And we parted, promising each other to meet one last time before her final departure

We set the meeting for a Monday afternoon, and I was at our meeting place in time

But she didn’t show up

I waited for fifteen minutes

Half-an-hour

One hour

No trace of her

Had she fallen somewhere, as there was frosted snow on the sidewalks?

I started worrying and left the meeting place and started to walk the city

I walked toward her building, but the only time I had seen it was at night, and I wasn’t anymore sure which one it was, and anyway her name would not have appeared on the front door

Then I decided to go to the hospital, and asked if they had seen anyone with her name

But they didn’t, and I was glad to hear that, and yet saddened for I wondered why she didn’t show up as the only excuse I could think of had been blown away

It was already two hours of waiting and the night had fallen

I asked myself whether to drop the matter and live the city center to go home

But I couldn’t resolve myself on doing that, on not seeing her one last time

So I waited in the cold, roaming through the city, until I decided to sit down in a warm place where there’d be a wifi to be able to communicate with her

The only one that came to my mind was the mcdonald and I ordered something to eat

My waiting was already touching the third hour, when my phone rang

An unknown number, it was her

I didn’t understand what she was saying

She was crying

She had entirely forgotten our meeting

I remained very quiet, and she almost shouted at me, say something, say something

She expected me to be upset, angry, but I wasn’t

I just told her I still was in the town center

And she came

And she told me again her surprise in front of the quietness of my reaction, and how I had waited her for three hours

I didn’t reply, waiting for her had felt like the right thing to do

I didn’t tell her about all the details of my awaiting

We just moved away from the mcdonald to a little café in a medieval building

And there we sat and I ordered a tea to warm myself after all these emotions

And she told me about how she had started writing when she was young

Often with her friends at school, but of course, they were not as talented and perseverant as she was, and at a certain point their stories would be dropped

She had a problem finishing her stories, she had never finished any but the story about the immortal character she had sent me

And suddenly she looked into my eyes and asked me if I wanted to write with her

I felt intensely surprised and elated, the thought of writing a story with someone else had never crossed my mind

For me, writing was something deeply solitary

And I couldn’t imagine myself writing with anyone else

Except for her

She had already stirred my words, awakened long forgotten feelings dormant into my heart, triggered my inspiration for writing poetry

And I said yes

And she replied that she knew it would have happened soon or late

And suddenly the mood of the night toppled from miserable to glorious

And we started on the spot discussing our story

She pressed me, she wanted to hear my ideas which I was not used to express out loud

We immediately agreed on a story line

It would be a story taking place in Lausanne, where we were living, with two main characters of our age

Each of us would write one of the characters, one chapter from her point of view, one chapter from mine

The story would take place in the present, but it would revolve around the discovery of a medieval legend we made up and the journey of self-discovery of the characters

It resembled to our story, of course

That night all her being awakened, all her face radiated light

She was truly alive

She told me that the only thing that truly mattered to her was becoming a writer

She didn’t care as much about anything else

And she wanted to become the most famous writer of her home country, as she deemed the quality of fantasy novels there was poor

And when she said all that I knew I had not misjudged her

I knew I was right about the fire I had just glimpsed deep within her soul

I knew she spoke the entire truth

And I knew that my dream reached to hers

And finally I thought she was realizing it too

We exchanged our mails and skype to be able to continue discussing of the story as she’d travel away

And decided to use the google drive platform to write

It was an endless night

She spoke and spoke about the books and the characters she loved

She had loved the tenant of wildfell hall, my Christmas present

Saying that she was not as gifted to chose books for others as I was

Since she had offered a fantasy novel to her boyfriend which bored him and discouraged him from reading

And I wondered why she was with him, but didn’t say anything as she had told me she was in love with him

Unfortunately that night I was the one on a hurry, and we parted, with the promise to see each other one last time to further discuss our story line



What I have forgotten to tell you, dear listener

Is that that night I had written her a letter confessing my love

Along with two drawings, one of Lausanne and another of my home village in Lebanon, and a poem, and a list of novels I recommended her

But her three hours delay saved me from committing the mistake (?) of confessing my love too early, of blowing the pickaxe on my own foot, especially that my love letter wasn’t so beautiful, and that I say looking back

When she proposed to write together it convinced me not to give her the love letter, and as she went to the bathroom, I removed the letter from the envelope

And at the end before parting I gave her my other presents, the drawings, the poem, the book list

And she was truly happy, as that it was the kind of presents she could accept



The next day we met again, to discuss our story further

She had called it L’histoire Lausannoise

And we spoke a lot

And I gave her several recommendations which she took with so much earnestness it touched me

One of them was not engaging herself too fast least she’d do a mistake as her parents had done

And she repeated to me that my the intensity of my gaze scared her, but that perhaps now she was getting used to it

And I walked her back home, and we parted for good

I felt sad, wondering if I’d ever see her again, and she sensed my sadness, and she escaped barely saying goodbye


--

I invite you to check out my blog for the drawings that go with each of these chapters, and to check out other of my writings if you've enjoyed reading this erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com
 

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Indeed Blue Christmas, the veil is thin. How did you hear of twin flames? I have a specialty of telling people about it just before they meet theirs, or that's at least what happened with Chantal, my best friend, who does most of the paintings and drawings which accompany my writings (chantal-peguiron.blogspot.ch/?view=flipcard)

--

Separation

And the writer girl (from now on I’m going to write writress!) traveled away

Returning to her homeland

I was sad to already lose her presence

But at the same time I was overly joyous of writing with her

After all, that’s what I had wanted all along, without knowing it perhaps

An easy way to interact with her and get to know her more and more deeply

Practicing our favorite art, our passion in life, together sounded like a dream

And indeed, it immediately triggered my inspiration to write more and better

I started walking in Lausanne’s city center that I barely knew

When I went out of my internship every evening, I’d get myself lost in the tiny meandering streets instead of going home

At that time my perception of Lausanne changed altogether

Before, I had never been able to fully appreciate its beauty, to discover its hidden corners

Entering into each building old enough to be interesting

Climbing narrow stairs that passed under one of the old city gate

Visiting the castle that is supposed to be closed to public

And as I discovered my town, part of the story started weaving in my mind

And so joyous were I that I started sharing each and every of my idea with her

And I encouraged her to do the same

But, of course, she never replied

In her initial enthusiasm she had said she’d use the gap days in between semesters to start advancing on her story line

But she didn’t

Until I confronted her, asking her if she had taken the vow of silence

That made her react, and she complimented me on my sarcasm (I barely use sarcasm usually)

My contained frustration burst open, and I asked her why at least she didn’t tell me she’d be busy in the next days and come back to the story whenever she’d have more time

I had spoken to her roughly, and she replied on the same hurtful tone

And she succeeded in hurting me

At first I almost replied on the same tone, but I refrained from doing so and instead I went running along the lake

I run for a long time, feeling torn apart by sadness

The idea of hurting her and being her by her, and that of losing her, clenched at my heart

Until I found my peace of mind in a tiny stone church where I sat down and prayed for a moment

Then I knew that I had to excuse myself, even if my words weren’t as hurtful as hers, in my opinion

And when I begged her to forgive me, she said it was not necessary

And her tone became more truthful, and she revealed to me that my enthusiasm had scared her for a while, but that now she was over that and she’d soon start writing her part

I was profoundly glad to have retrieved my peace, to feel close from her again

And yet, what she told me was strange

She complained of the intensity in my gaze, my enthusiasm when it came to writing

When I had seen the same enthusiasm and the same intensity in her

It was strange indeed, but I didn’t complained and focused on building up Enzo’s persona, my main character, while she wrote about Lucy

And soon one day I saw she had started writing the first chapter

And I did as well, and my words flowed in torrents on paper

I wrote every night after university pages upon pages

And I spent the weekend writing too

It was the first time in my life I felt I was truly living up to my real potential

Everywhere, at any time, new writing ideas sprouted in my mind

The lake, the mountain, the sky and the old town acquired altogether new meanings

They became for me a library of metaphors and beauty and inspiration

And I felt happy, profoundly happy

And I refrained from writing to her much, to avoid scaring her away another time

We kept our communication to the bare minimum, mainly centered on the pieces we had written, she’d review mine and I’d review hers

At that time, I read the name of the wind, following her advice (she too had written me a list of books to read the last day before parting)

And it unblocked something in me, I authorized myself to spin words as I wished, in opposition to how we had learnt to write at school

And she’d often comment on some of my sentences saying they were beautiful, and the knowledge that she was not insensitive to my art would bring warmth to my heart

We continued writing together, but at different paces

For each fifteen pages of hers, I wrote fifty pages

She was too busy with her life

And I respected that at first, I just focused on writing my chapters, hoping that soon she’d be so enthralled by our story she wouldn’t be able to stop herself

After all that’s what had happened to me

We spoke on skype once and as we spoke her face became truer and truer to itself, but after some time she had to go, and she told me that she knew we still had so, so much to tell to each other, but right now she couldn’t

After two months of writing together, she disappeared for a while

Until one night she wrote me, telling me the mother of her boyfriend had passed away and she had to try consoling him, and she had several friends with personal issues who dumped all their problems on her, and in the past two weeks didn’t have the time nor the energy to write, but the story still played in the back of her mind and she’d soon come back to it

And she excused herself of disappointing me over and over

I told her it didn’t matter, and what I truly wanted is that she remained strong and managed to get back on firmer soil

And she said that sometimes, a far away friend could do much more than the people surrounding us

And again, I felt a moment of closeness with her, not so much because of the words she used, but for the energy they bore and the warmth they conveyed

And I continued writing alone, for a while

She indeed came back to the story

But her involvement was spotty, she’d write a lot, then stop for a long time

Promising each time she’d come back with more time and energy, and thanking me for not giving up on her

It went on and on until I felt forced of confronting her again

I secretly hoped to help her making choices between the things that truly mattered in her life and the ones which didn’t, as she was involved in so many activities which didn’t really passionate her

I appealed to the fire I had felt in her, when she had told me that nothing truly mattered in her life except writing

And I called my mail the Soviet plan, as if in anticipation of the wreck that followed

And I requested from her to write a certain amount of monthly pages

And when she replied, a few days later, it came as a numbing shock

She said that she had to muster all her courage to write what followed

And that for now she was going to put her dream to become a writer on hold

She was truly, truly disappointed by herself

But her field of study, architecture, occupied too much of her time, and the rest was filled with other obligations, and that if she’d continue writing with me she’d slow me down even more than she used to

So she gave up, proposing to use her character at my own fancy, or cancel her altogether from the story, and she said she was ready to continue proofreading my work

And when I read her message, my world shattered

For three months, I had kept a link, a bond, alive with her, despite the distance

And now, that bond was breaking up

I had pushed her too much

And yet, how could I continue containing my enthusiasm for this story?

In a way, I had been truthful toward who I was to encourage and push her to write more

And sooner or later, it’d have happened anyway

I wrote her a long disjointed mail where I stated she was in my opinion losing herself from her life path, that she was filling her life with unnecessary chores and forgetting about her true dream, her true passion

I had asked her the last time I saw her what was her aim in life, and she had replied it was to reach happiness

And I told her that she’d never be happy if she didn’t write

And I gave her the example of my mother who had put her dream of becoming a painter for twenty years before finally starting to fulfill it

And she replied a week later, with a very short sentence saying that my harsh truths had hurt her as much as they helped her

And thus our correspondence ended

And for the four months that followed I refrained from writing her, partly out of pride, partly because I had nothing to tell her

And she never wrote me

But each and every day I thought of her

I hesitated about continuing writing l’histoire Lausannoise alone, but I didn’t feel like it, it was too sad to continue on my own

And so I started another novel, one I had put on hold for a long time, a historical fiction taking place in Lebanon, my homeland

Two years before I had done extensive research about my land’s past, about how people used to eat and think and clothe and build their houses and organize their villages and their lives

It had been absolutely passionating

And I finally had the energy to get truly started with the novel

And I continued writing three, four pages a day, each night after my studies

It flowed easily, but not as easily as it had been with her

And after a couple of months, I stopped writing it, as I felt I was not mature enough yet to complete such a novel

Meanwhile I had delved in a new interest of mine, psychology and personality types

I wished to understand better why I and other people behaved as we did

I wished to understand why she behaved in such a fleeing way

And that research consumed all my time

It was September already, and for a long time I had planned to write her a poem for her birthday

Inspiration came up easily, and a poem was soon born and called the sneaky river of time

One week later she replied, saying that she had spent a long time trying to come up with the right response, but she couldn’t yet, and she would soon

I knew she wouldn’t, and I told her that sometimes the first response we think about is the best

And I asked her about her life and about writing

Our exchanges were short and happened on facebook, as she had started speaking to me again there

She told me she was trying to build up a fantasy world from one of her dreams, but she didn’t make much progress as she needed to know all the rules of her world before actually writing the novel

And soon enough I felt frustrated again by our communication, as she started half-replying or forgetting to reply altogether

It reminded me of all the past moments of waiting I had endured

And I felt swept again in the emotional wheel which had placated during the months of silence

I still thought of her, but quietly, not anxiously awaiting to read her precious counted words and trying to interpret them

So I stopped writing her again

But the harm was done, I couldn’t stop thinking of her, couldn’t sleep at night almost

Until one day after the dentist had extracted me a wisdom tooth, inspiration filled my heart and my mind and my hands started dancing on the keyboard

I was about to reveal her my feelings, my undying love

The mail was called, my story with the little faerie

I told her how she had reawakened what had been dormant in my heart for a long, long time

I thanked her for encouraging me to launch myself into writing, as I had never written as much as in the past few months

And I said that I’d try to snatch away this pillar from the temple of my heart and throw it into the sea abysses and that perhaps, someday, a fisherman would bring it back onshore and townsmen would wonder what this column could have stood for

I didn’t ask her to go out with me, I didn’t ask her whether she loved me

I was not ready yet for her answers

And she replied, as the evanescent faerie she was

Calling me the wording wizard, and asking me to continue writing no matter how I felt because I had a rare gift of talent and endurance

And hoping that one day I’d find the person who’d complete my soul in its entirety

Her reply burnt my heart in the deepest of my flesh, it torn me apart

And to avoid falling into despair I started writing again

And this time, I resumed the writing of l’histoire Lausannoise, our story, my story

With the hope that someday, somehow my novel would end up on the shelves of every bookstore

And that she’d come upon it and remember it and read it and understand the strength of my love for her and how deeply our dream was intertwined





“Réflexion” is a watercolor painting by Chantal Peguiron chantal-peguiron.blogspot.ch/?view=flipcard


If l'histoire Lausannoise awakened your curiosity, you can start by chapter 1 - a long day by train erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com/2015/04/2 8/a-long-day-by-train-enzo-part-one , or chapter 3 - meeting Lucy erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com/2015/05/0 1/enzo-and-lucys-meeting


If you'd rather read a medieval legend, get a look at the legend of the underground city, which I wrote for l'histoire Lausannoise too erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com/2015/02/2 5/the-legend-of-an-underground-city


And that's the love poem I mentioned, my story with the little faerie erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com/2015/09/2 8/my-story-with-the-little-faerie

And the sneaky river of time erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com/2015/09/0 8/the-sneaky-river-of-time

And the accompanying drawing erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com/2017/12/2 3/meeting-my-twin-soul-separation
 

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Discussion Starter #5
And the writer girl (from now on I’m going to write writress!) traveled away

Returning to her homeland

I was sad to already lose her presence

But at the same time I was overly joyous of writing with her

After all, that’s what I had wanted all along, without knowing it perhaps

An easy way to interact with her and get to know her more and more deeply

Practicing our favorite art, our passion in life, together sounded like a dream

And indeed, it immediately triggered my inspiration to write more and better

I started walking in Lausanne’s city center that I barely knew

When I went out of my internship every evening, I’d get myself lost in the tiny meandering streets instead of going home

At that time my perception of Lausanne changed altogether

Before, I had never been able to fully appreciate its beauty, to discover its hidden corners

Entering into each building old enough to be interesting

Climbing narrow stairs that passed under one of the old city gate

Visiting the castle that is supposed to be closed to public

And as I discovered my town, part of the story started weaving in my mind

And so joyous were I that I started sharing each and every of my idea with her

And I encouraged her to do the same

But, of course, she never replied

In her initial enthusiasm she had said she’d use the gap days in between semesters to start advancing on her story line

But she didn’t

Until I confronted her, asking her if she had taken the vow of silence

That made her react, and she complimented me on my sarcasm (I barely use sarcasm usually)

My contained frustration burst open, and I asked her why at least she didn’t tell me she’d be busy in the next days and come back to the story whenever she’d have more time

I had spoken to her roughly, and she replied on the same hurtful tone

And she succeeded in hurting me

At first I almost replied on the same tone, but I refrained from doing so and instead I went running along the lake

I run for a long time, feeling torn apart by sadness

The idea of hurting her and being her by her, and that of losing her, clenched at my heart

Until I found my peace of mind in a tiny stone church where I sat down and prayed for a moment

Then I knew that I had to excuse myself, even if my words weren’t as hurtful as hers, in my opinion

And when I begged her to forgive me, she said it was not necessary

And her tone became more truthful, and she revealed to me that my enthusiasm had scared her for a while, but that now she was over that and she’d soon start writing her part

I was profoundly glad to have retrieved my peace, to feel close from her again

And yet, what she told me was strange

She complained of the intensity in my gaze, my enthusiasm when it came to writing

When I had seen the same enthusiasm and the same intensity in her

It was strange indeed, but I didn’t complained and focused on building up Enzo’s persona, my main character, while she wrote about Lucy

And soon one day I saw she had started writing the first chapter

And I did as well, and my words flowed in torrents on paper

I wrote every night after university pages upon pages

And I spent the weekend writing too

It was the first time in my life I felt I was truly living up to my real potential

Everywhere, at any time, new writing ideas sprouted in my mind

The lake, the mountain, the sky and the old town acquired altogether new meanings

They became for me a library of metaphors and beauty and inspiration

And I felt happy, profoundly happy

And I refrained from writing to her much, to avoid scaring her away another time

We kept our communication to the bare minimum, mainly centered on the pieces we had written, she’d review mine and I’d review hers

At that time, I read the name of the wind, following her advice (she too had written me a list of books to read the last day before parting)

And it unblocked something in me, I authorized myself to spin words as I wished, in opposition to how we had learnt to write at school

And she’d often comment on some of my sentences saying they were beautiful, and the knowledge that she was not insensitive to my art would bring warmth to my heart

We continued writing together, but at different paces

For each fifteen pages of hers, I wrote fifty pages

She was too busy with her life

And I respected that at first, I just focused on writing my chapters, hoping that soon she’d be so enthralled by our story she wouldn’t be able to stop herself

After all that’s what had happened to me

We spoke on skype once and as we spoke her face became truer and truer to itself, but after some time she had to go, and she told me that she knew we still had so, so much to tell to each other, but right now she couldn’t

After two months of writing together, she disappeared for a while

Until one night she wrote me, telling me the mother of her boyfriend had passed away and she had to try consoling him, and she had several friends with personal issues who dumped all their problems on her, and in the past two weeks didn’t have the time nor the energy to write, but the story still played in the back of her mind and she’d soon come back to it

And she excused herself of disappointing me over and over

I told her it didn’t matter, and what I truly wanted is that she remained strong and managed to get back on firmer soil

And she said that sometimes, a far away friend could do much more than the people surrounding us

And again, I felt a moment of closeness with her, not so much because of the words she used, but for the energy they bore and the warmth they conveyed

And I continued writing alone, for a while

She indeed came back to the story

But her involvement was spotty, she’d write a lot, then stop for a long time

Promising each time she’d come back with more time and energy, and thanking me for not giving up on her

It went on and on until I felt forced of confronting her again

I secretly hoped to help her making choices between the things that truly mattered in her life and the ones which didn’t, as she was involved in so many activities which didn’t really passionate her

I appealed to the fire I had felt in her, when she had told me that nothing truly mattered in her life except writing

And I called my mail the Soviet plan, as if in anticipation of the wreck that followed

And I requested from her to write a certain amount of monthly pages

And when she replied, a few days later, it came as a numbing shock

She said that she had to muster all her courage to write what followed

And that for now she was going to put her dream to become a writer on hold

She was truly, truly disappointed by herself

But her field of study, architecture, occupied too much of her time, and the rest was filled with other obligations, and that if she’d continue writing with me she’d slow me down even more than she used to

So she gave up, proposing to use her character at my own fancy, or cancel her altogether from the story, and she said she was ready to continue proofreading my work

And when I read her message, my world shattered

For three months, I had kept a link, a bond, alive with her, despite the distance

And now, that bond was breaking up

I had pushed her too much

And yet, how could I continue containing my enthusiasm for this story?

In a way, I had been truthful toward who I was to encourage and push her to write more

And sooner or later, it’d have happened anyway

I wrote her a long disjointed mail where I stated she was in my opinion losing herself from her life path, that she was filling her life with unnecessary chores and forgetting about her true dream, her true passion

I had asked her the last time I saw her what was her aim in life, and she had replied it was to reach happiness

And I told her that she’d never be happy if she didn’t write

And I gave her the example of my mother who had put her dream of becoming a painter for twenty years before finally starting to fulfill it

And she replied a week later, with a very short sentence saying that my harsh truths had hurt her as much as they helped her

And thus our correspondence ended

And for the four months that followed I refrained from writing her, partly out of pride, partly because I had nothing to tell her

And she never wrote me

But each and every day I thought of her

I hesitated about continuing writing l’histoire Lausannoise alone, but I didn’t feel like it, it was too sad to continue on my own

And so I started another novel, one I had put on hold for a long time, a historical fiction taking place in Lebanon, my homeland

Two years before I had done extensive research about my land’s past, about how people used to eat and think and clothe and build their houses and organize their villages and their lives

It had been absolutely passionating

And I finally had the energy to get truly started with the novel

And I continued writing three, four pages a day, each night after my studies

It flowed easily, but not as easily as it had been with her

And after a couple of months, I stopped writing it, as I felt I was not mature enough yet to complete such a novel

Meanwhile I had delved in a new interest of mine, psychology and personality types

I wished to understand better why I and other people behaved as we did

I wished to understand why she behaved in such a fleeing way

And that research consumed all my time

It was September already, and for a long time I had planned to write her a poem for her birthday

Inspiration came up easily, and a poem was soon born and called the sneaky river of time

One week later she replied, saying that she had spent a long time trying to come up with the right response, but she couldn’t yet, and she would soon

I knew she wouldn’t, and I told her that sometimes the first response we think about is the best

And I asked her about her life and about writing

Our exchanges were short and happened on facebook, as she had started speaking to me again there

She told me she was trying to build up a fantasy world from one of her dreams, but she didn’t make much progress as she needed to know all the rules of her world before actually writing the novel

And soon enough I felt frustrated again by our communication, as she started half-replying or forgetting to reply altogether

It reminded me of all the past moments of waiting I had endured

And I felt swept again in the emotional wheel which had placated during the months of silence

I still thought of her, but quietly, not anxiously awaiting to read her precious counted words and trying to interpret them

So I stopped writing her again

But the harm was done, I couldn’t stop thinking of her, couldn’t sleep at night almost

Until one day after the dentist had extracted me a wisdom tooth, inspiration filled my heart and my mind and my hands started dancing on the keyboard

I was about to reveal her my feelings, my undying love

The mail was called, my story with the little faerie

I told her how she had reawakened what had been dormant in my heart for a long, long time

I thanked her for encouraging me to launch myself into writing, as I had never written as much as in the past few months

And I said that I’d try to snatch away this pillar from the temple of my heart and throw it into the sea abysses and that perhaps, someday, a fisherman would bring it back onshore and townsmen would wonder what this column could have stood for

I didn’t ask her to go out with me, I didn’t ask her whether she loved me

I was not ready yet for her answers

And she replied, as the evanescent faerie she was

Calling me the wording wizard, and asking me to continue writing no matter how I felt because I had a rare gift of talent and endurance

And hoping that one day I’d find the person who’d complete my soul in its entirety

Her reply burnt my heart in the deepest of my flesh, it torn me apart

And to avoid falling into despair I started writing again

And this time, I resumed the writing of l’histoire Lausannoise, our story, my story

With the hope that someday, somehow my novel would end up on the shelves of every bookstore

And that she’d come upon it and remember it and read it and understand the strength of my love for her and how deeply our dream was intertwined


--

I invite you to check out my blog for the drawings that go with each of these chapters, and to check out other related writings if you've enjoyed reading this erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com
 

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I had declared her my love in my story with the little faerie

And she had called me wording wizard, which was the best compliment that could ever come from her, the best compliment she could make me

But she did not say she loved me too, and everything indicated she did not

And a drenching sadness rolled over me

Telling her that I’d try to forget her was a lie, it was something I could not do

No, I could not

The only thing that could alleviate my pain was writing

And I restarted writing our story, l’histoire Lausannoise, alone

I changed the story line, and focused on delving into Enzo’s past

His trauma after his mother’s death, his existential questioning

Of course, I drew inspiration from my own questioning when I was a child

And I built up Enzo’s internal town, the city of his mind as he imagined it, as he painted it

A couple of fruitful months elapsed, but then inspiration started to dry up

I was momentarily living in Paris and having trouble to find my own quiet space to write

And by delving into Enzo’s existential questionings, my own unanswered questions resurfaced

I had decided a long time before to believe in God, in the goodness of life

But that did not suffice me anymore

I desperately wanted to find out if all my love for her had a root in any form of spirituality

I wanted to find a meaning to what I was undergoing

I knew already, instinctively, since my childhood that the love story of my life wouldn’t be an easy one

It wasn’t by chance that my favorite cartoon was the beauty and the beast, that many stories I wrote spoke of desperate unrequited love

But had I a reason to hope with her?

Or my love was only an infatuation, a trick of my mind, of my desire to be in love?

Was I falling prey again of my tendency to idealize from afar a girl and loving her as it sometimes occurred to me when I was younger, only to discover later that she was not the person I had thought she was

But no, this time it was different

I had known her, spoken with her as I had never spoken with anyone else

There was an unequalled intensity in our meetings

It was as though I was entirely alive with her, entirely awakened

I could remember everything she had said afterward, I knew exactly which questions to ask her

And I had seen her true face, this face that continued to haunt my imagination with its beauty and purity

I had felt drawn to her face, to her eyes, like a butterfly to the light, like a sunflower to the sun, like a thrown pebble by the bottom of the ocean

Irresistibly drawn to her, and my heart, oh my heart, how it felt when I saw her true face

Even one year later, ten months after seeing her for the last time, it still warmed and shook my heart to visualize her true face

But I had not felt physically attracted to her

I had not felt truly attracted to any girl, as a matter of fact

Except through the window of my fetish, the slight weight gain of five kilograms or so, the skinny girl that becomes slightly curved

It was more a fantasy than something in the real life

Something I explored when I was alone and depressed

When I was inspired to write it never came to my mind

It happened when I was bored and depressed by the sheer load of studies at university

It happened when my writing inspiration was drying up because I had too many existential doubts

I questioned the usefulness of what I was doing

What use to the world could my writings bring, I wondered desperately

When every minute a person is dying from hunger, from war

I’m here in the western world living in relative comfort, when people are suffering everywhere

When the environment is being destroyed every day

I’m here sitting at my desk and writing words that won’t even reach to these people

Words are hazy and insubstantial, I kept telling myself

Your writings are useless

You are useless

That was my state of mind for many weeks

While I explored various kinds of spirituality, to try to find out the answers I sought

I had a sea of free time, as I had finished my studies and was looking not very actively for a job

I wanted to do something to help others, to help the planet

But what?

Everything seemed to be governed by the rational thought that thwarted my idealism

I wanted to dream in big, to truly change things, to build an ideal city, an ideal nation

But how could I do that?

I had studied engineering to change things, but as I was finishing my studies I realized that at best I’d make a tiny local change

And that wasn’t enough for me, it wasn’t enough to kindle my inner flame

Especially that I did not love what I had studied

What I loved instead were words

But I was stuck in my half-finished novel with the fear that it was completely useless to continue writing it

I had stepped into an infernal circle of negativity

Negative thoughts fueling other negative thoughts

Then I needed to determine whether God existed or not, because of course my choices would be influenced by the answer to this question

But none of the texts and spiritualities I read convinced me to the core

Every time I’d find a flaw, and a flaw in a theorem makes this theorem fail

The only times I did not think of all that was when I explored my fetish

And for the first time in my life, I masturbated and reached an orgasm

I had already in wet dreams, but it was the first time I did it consciously

Of course, I liked very much the sensation and became sort of addicted to it

After all these years I had deprived myself of it

Before, when my father and my uncle had heard I had never masturbated, they worried for me

And I worried too, I worried to be asexual, or impotent

And so in a way it reassured me to be able to do it

And when the darkest period was reached, when I felt entirely hopeless and lost

A small light appeared at the horizon

I took a decision

I needed to work, not to fear the world of work, to earn some money, to find myself an occupation

I needed to work, and I accepted that the ideal job for me did not exist

And so I started looking concretely for a job

Fate smiled to me, and I got a positive reply from the start

Meanwhile, I had ordered a book, Anam Cara: a book of celtic wisdom, and I read another one about the limits of science in every field, quantum physics, astrophysics, biology of evolution, neuroscience of the mind

And I started building up a new vision of the world that was inspired by these readings, but also came from intuitions I had

I started viewing the world as a game, a video game, where slowly, era after era, we progressed in knowledge, we discovered new things, and pushed our boundaries away

But a time would arrive when these boundaries won’t be pushed further, and that era has perhaps arrived, at least in the science as we know it, the science in opposition to spirituality

With the big bang and quantum physics and dark holes, science has pushed its limits until a hazy membrane where very little light filtrates

The mysteries of the universe hide beneath this membrane

This membrane is here to prevent us of fully knowing the rules of the game, of understanding all the rules of the universe

It is here to prevent us of finding a unique meaning in life

Instead diversity of thought is encouraged, as there’s nothing that can be proved

Moreover, despite all the chaos and apparent unfairness around us

Life has a beauty in itself, and it is extremely creative

If everything was born from chaos, I’d find it strange that our universe would be so wealthy in possibilities, so rich that we never get bored

There are more plants and animals that we could ever know by heart

Pinching strings produces sound and beautiful music thanks to the wave properties of the air

Why would music exist if there weren’t any meaning behind the universe, if everything were born from chaos? Why would dawn and sunsets color up the sky every day? Why was nature so generous in beauty?

That convinced me there was an intelligent and sensitive design beyond the universe

And I pushed my reasoning farther

Even the bad things that happened in our world, for instance fossil fuel exploitation that lead to global warming had been allowed to happen by all the coal, the oil and the gas that had formed underneath the soil

This intelligent design beyond the universe had surely envisioned that by placing fossil fuels on earth, someday, somehow, they’d be exploited and global temperatures would rise

And despite that foreknowledge fossil fuels were all around to be found

Therefore, global warming was not necessarily something truly evil

Perhaps it was here to teach us a lesson, to show human beings that it was useless to live out of their fears to lack, useless to research the comfort at all cost, because all this will bring discomfort and war and destruction not to one person but to the whole humanity

I decided we were in a game that was trying to help us learn lessons, develop our potential

Not a cynical game, yet the game is harsh with us, without appeal

Since we live in a world dominated by matter, a world where we have to sustain ourselves to survive

And not a world of spirits who can conjure up a city and a feast in a single thought

All these discoveries pacified me

Gave me an inner force I lacked before

I understood that turmoil in our lives was here for a reason, to help us reach new understandings

That it was necessary to accept and undergo these periods of intense doubting and mild depression

To later ascend higher peaks and view the world from perspectives we had never dreamt of contemplating

The book I mentioned, Anam Cara, helped me too, as this harmonious mixture of Celtic and Christian wisdom coincided with what I wanted to believe all my life but didn’t dare to

That the world was based on love, that we were one with nature, that nature offered us a visible metaphor of the internal landscapes of our soul

And the author mentioned the concept of Anam Cara, the soul friend, this person you meet in your life and who understands you entirely and loves you for who you truly are

And this image rekindled my hope with the faerie girl

I had felt something so strong for her it made no sense of doubting my intuition and my feelings

And for a while I felt entirely pacified with myself

I had started to accept my sexuality

I had confronted all my existential doubts and found new answers

And I was on the process of finding a job

I was finally getting out from the dark tunnel where I had walked for a couple of months

I was seeing the promise of fair dawns over the distant mountains to which I was headed

And one day I started writing her again, but as I was in the middle of my poem I threw it away

I had already decided not to write her at least for one year, to give me the time to finish my novel, but also out of pride

After all I had declared her the tenderness of my feelings for her, and she had not encouraged me to persevere, and it made no sense at all to write her

And so I stuck to my decision for few days

Until one night of January when I had a tremendous headache and went for a run in the streets of Paris

And I enjoyed immensely this midnight run in the hazy streets that disappeared in the distance, and with the music I was listening to

And suddenly a poem started sprouting in my mind

It was called the glacier’s power

And it told the story of this glacier, these eternal snows we each have in the depth of our heart, that are sometimes, often, covered by layers and layers of impurities, mud, cement, asphalt, cities, cars and whatever else

And so I wrote her without a second thought and I did not ask her anything

I just shared my new found wisdom with her

I shared with her some of my love

I did not ask her how she was doing, I didn’t tell her about me

I just wrote about this glacier

And the next day she wrote me, and she was more truthful than she used to be

She said that I had been right all along, that architecture, nor engineer, nor anything else was her calling

The only thing she could do, and well, was spinning words

The intensity of my gaze had intimated her greatly because my eyes seemed to pierce her naked to examine and judge and rewrite her truths in black print

But now, right now, she was feeling low and mildly disinterested in life, and that my message alone had been sufficient to raise her mood and spirit

And she concluded her mail saying she didn’t deserve my continual friendship and support, and that she would try to start giving back


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I invite you to check out my blog for the drawings that go with each of these chapters, and other related writings if you've enjoyed reading this erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com
 

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During my midnight run in Paris

Just before writing her again for the first time

I had told myself, perhaps she is sad

And I felt a drenching sadness within my heart

And that convinced me to overcome my ego and write her again

Despite having been rejected, or at least ignored by her so many times

And after I wrote her the glacier’s power

She told me that was what helped her out of her mild disinterest in life

So my intuition about her was true

This gave me hope, somehow I was able to sense her feelings despite the distance and the silence

There was something beyond the limited rational reality at work here

The morning after her reply I had a meeting with my cousin to visit a castle in Paris’ countryside

And out of chance my cousin didn’t show up as she had forgotten to set her alarm

And I walked among nature for the first time since a long time

The sky was dark and looming, it was drizzling slightly

And the contrast between the greenness of the vegetation and the darkness of the castle and the sky was beautiful

I got myself lost in the fields around, listening to music I felt perfectly in tune with

And my next letter to her started to sprout and grow in my mind

It would be a strong letter, another much stronger love declaration than my first, shy one

And as I walked, words added up to form sentences and paragraphs

And my heart danced with the poetry of my thoughts

For a long moment, everything was in harmony within me

And that’s how the lonely islands were born





Your reply comes to me as an odd surprise.

I now feel like asking you dozens of questions. Do you know that everything about you interests me, right? Everything. And I have an infinite patience for listening to all your stories.

Yet, I won’t. I won’t ask you anything, because written communication has been deeply frustrating in the past. It has worn me off, it has unleashed the underground ocean of my soul ; roaring and screaming and wailing, crazy waves shattering against the rocky promontories, and the sky low and dark, waiting for a single sunray to pierce through and magically appease the storm for a few hours.

That sounds highly unreasonable, doesn’t it? I just wanted to offer you a glimpse into the passionate latitudes of my soul, where the vegetation is luxurious, full of life and colors, and where sudden winds can rise and blow everything away, transforming it in a barren steppe.

As I once told you, I’ve been longing for a very deep relationship, since ever. One where I would deeply understand her, and she would deeply understand me. A relationship where, as time flows away and our bodies age, we still explore with fascination and a childish joy each other’s interior worlds : its geographies, its oceans, its mountains and its towns, its deep valleys and its enchanted forests, and its dreams passing as stealthily as a flock of clouds. A relationship where we deeply believe in each other, and unite forces creatively to give birth to our innermost dreams.

I have many friends, attractive, pretty, kind, loving, intelligent girls, with whom I could settle, and come to share deep affection and affinity. Yet, my inner core said no, no, no, again and again. That was not its definition of love. Sexual pleasure and affection can be found with thousands of people, so it is not unique at all. Instead, real love is painful as a sharp blade, it is healing like rain and regenerating like spring, it is like walking on the clouds and flying above marvelous landscapes, it forces to transcend ourselves and our ego, and it stubbornly escapes definition. That is what good litterature tries to capture. Contrarily to common prejudices, I believe that real love exists, and shouldn’t be confused with affection. Real love is all powerful, and it is all destructive, depending whether the balance tips toward the soul or the ego, depending whether we choose to live like Gilbert and Helen, or like Heathcliff and Catherine.

I had never met such a person, until I met you. I slowly understood that our inner worlds stood very close, two lonely islands on a boudless ocean, wrapped in hazes of mystery and layer of clouds, hiding beautiful gems underneath. I looked in your eyes, because it was natural for me to do so, for your eyes were so comfortable to look into.

I slowly came to believe that destiny wanted us to meet (for years and years, I never met anyone at a party, I strolled around, gloomily and proudly thinking what an alien I was). Destiny wanted us to meet, because there is a special dynamic between us, that remains mostly inexplored. Two days ago, I was taking a midnight run in Paris to chase away a headache, and I thought about writing to you. My ego said, “no, no, no, you don’t write to her before one year passes”. But then, my tender part replied: “I love her anyway, and I don’t expect anything at all in return. I will write, because it may help her ; maybe she isn’t feeling that good after all.”

Beware, this special dynamic between us, which I see (the tip of the iceberg only), and which you don’t see, doesn’t mean anything. If it is real, it is a gift of the universe, a simple gift to gain more strength in our inner dreams if we choose to take care of it. Yet each of us is free, entirely free. That’s the essence of life! I am ripping naked the shell surrounding my inner world, in front of your gentle gaze, just because it may help you understanding certain things.

I don’t expect anything from you, anything at all. And I consider that I am still owing you a lot, because you have given me much more than I have given you, without knowing it. You have showed me the power of silence. You have taught me to be humble in my love. You have been the wind blowing through my sail on the ocean of self-discovery. So please, stop judging yourself unworthy or undeserving! Stop it now!

Beyond these considerations, I feel that you never really looked at me, you never really understood who I was, because you perceived me as an interesting and intense threat. You were curious, but there were my eyes looming around. You saw me like a fire spitting sparks all around, and you were afraid that a fire would start in the dry grassland in want of rain of your soul. And, many times, the fear prevailed. The same fear that has in part driven you, in your studies, in your relationships, in avoiding conflicts, in money issues…

I understand your fear – we all have fears -, and I feel compassionate toward them. You didn’t have the chance of having a solid family as you grew up. And, of course, you want to avoid repeating the errors your parents did, you don’t want to come even close of hurting your significant other, and that is understandable and noble. Yet, living with fear is the best way to fall in the same traps, or in other traps.

I have so many more things I’d like to tell you. But I won’t, for now (even though I disgressed a bit to the former statement, as you will see).

I tried to be as blunt as I could. I believe it is my duty to push you to help yourself – to get rid of society prejudices and false truths, and embrace life more fully, embrace your beautiful inner core. If you haven’t read the allegory of the cave by Plato, do read it, it is short and very powerful, and it shows how life didn’t change much, 2400 years later.

I think that the universe has granted each person a truly unique knowledge or gift, in the inner glacier of the soul, something that goes beyond the false truths that we are taught and fed each day, something fragile and pure and beautiful. It is our duty to deeply believe in this gift, to let it express itself through our passions, our love, our creativity and our all powerful intuitions. The initial asset that the universe gives us can be compared to a piece of land, and some seeds. This asset is truly ours, and no one knows about it except us, for it lies in the dark secrecy of our soul. Experiences, choices, time and our own will make certain seeds grow, and other falter, until they become plants and trees. If they become large and mighty trees, they will bear lots of fruits, for our loved ones, and for society ; offering shade and freshness for the lonely wanderer. Instead, when we conform to what society has taught us, our internal trees remain as shrubs, small, and in a dull square shape. We waste away our potential of being a truly unique individual.

I believe that the excitement for life (passion, love) is our compass to sustainable happiness ; as this excitement decreases or ceases, it means that we got lost in the meandering hills of life ; it means that we need to get back on track. This apathy should push as to question everything with a lot of self-honesty, our beliefs, the real influence of people around us, etc. This apathy becomes a gift when we use it to grow in wisdom and self-awareness.

That is why it is important not to fall in the trap of regretting our past choices. Once we understand why they were wrong, and reassure ourselves that we won’t make again the same mistakes, they become an inspiration and a strength. Bad choices can give a deeper meaning to our art and help other people realize they have taken the wrong way. There is no joy without pain, no light without darkness, no good experiences without bad ones. Wisdom is to accept them all with an open heart, and to let our inner trees grow.

Ok, let me sum it up now.

I don’t want anything from you. Anything. Hate me, be indifferent, think that I am a fool, like me as a curious specimen, I don’t care. You’re totally free.

And please, please don’t feel sorry for me! I was very glad and grateful to meet you. I will probably continue loving you – not with neediness, immaturity and egoism -, but of a deep, intense and patient love.

Also, never hesitate to write to me. As I told you, I have an immense and keen interest for everything you do, think, feel, and dream of. Anything, really.

Thank you for reading me till here. I know that it may be quite daunting to step in at first, in the midst of winter’s gloom. So I’m sending you a smile to light up the dense texture of this little minster; and a tiny, tiny stroke on your blushing cheek, to offer you a bit of courage. Can you feel it?



For you, dear listener

I reproduced my letter as I had written it two years ago

So for a moment you could feel again in my skin

Feel the underground oceans of my soul unleash

Feel my endless love for her

Feel my strengths and my weaknesses

And she replied, she replied

But for her reply five full days had flown away

After sending her the lonely islands

I felt empowered, I felt full of love, and I wasn’t waiting for her reply

It was enough to me to love her, to accept this swelling feeling in my heart

One of these days I was running in Paris streets

Elated by the act of courage I had done, the music I was listening to

And I stepped into a church

And there a powerful feeling struck me

My life is going to change this week, I told myself

You’re going to be accepted for the job

And she’s going to reply to you

And my heart danced with joy in anticipation

I felt so elated I could have flied above Paris’ roofs

On Thursday I took the train to Lausanne

And elation let place to despair

Night is the darkest right before dawn after all

I told myself I had been a fool, a fool

How could I be so sure to be right?

Wasn’t I deluding myself?

Of course I was! I had not even prepared for the job interview

And the last part of the day was gone in misery

I felt a drenching sadness gripping at my heart

When you’re used to a feeling of warmth and this warmth leaves you

Cold becomes even more biting, like a metal blade

I had taken a hotel in a tiny town overlooking Leman lake

And I went there and spent the evening masturbating in my large, cozy room and newfound privacy

But then right before sleeping I wrote few sentences

And I felt better

And the next day I woke up at dawn

And I went to observe the rising sun

Everything was blanketed in snow around, the leafless trees, the streets, the roofs, the village church

And the lake was blue and silvery and mauve and violet and pink and yellow and golden

And the clouds drifted in the sky illuminating it with shades of colors

Dark blue turning to lighter blue and pink and violet and blue green

Coloring the lake in turn

It was the most beautiful dawn I had ever watched in my life

And I filled my lungs with the cold morning air and walked of a confident step

The train trip didn’t last long, I drank a tea or a coffee, I don’t remember which, arriving in Lausanne

And walked decidedly toward the interview

And after an hour or so the job was mine

I wasn’t over joyous to start working, but I felt glad to finally see a change in my life, to be leaving the oppression and grayness of Paris, to Switzerland where nature is at the doorstep of every house

And my day run away and at night I returned to the hotel with gleefulness

And suddenly I was sure something immensely positive was about to happen

I entered my room, turned on the computer

She had replied me, she had replied me!

Her letter was called a dawning understanding

Like the dawn I had watched

My heart beating fast, tremendously fast

I started reading her reply

Dear listener, perhaps someday you will get to read her version of the story, but for now you must content yourself with mine

From memory, she said



The real meaning of unconditional love surprises me more than I thought it could

No wonder that I couldn’t see into the proper depth of your soul, nor mine

When the walls around my heart had been so high and I wasn’t even aware of that

Your last letter struck home, sowed tears

In a way I liked this dimness of understanding, and so your bright spirit burnt my eyes indeed



She had acknowledged the strength of my love for her

And she had cried

Further in her mail she told me that she didn’t know herself yet, couldn’t have confidence in her intuitions still

And that even if she was working toward that aim, she couldn’t dream yet of reaching it

It would take time

As layer upon layer of fine cobweb was holding her in place



Our journey toward awakening had properly started and the promise of new day full of wonders was dawning, yet I had a feeling of unease after reading her response

I unconsciously knew the path would be long and full with hardships

Longer and harsher than I could ever have imagined

Stay tuned in, dear listener, to find out more about this story


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I invite you to check out my blog for the drawings that go with each of these chapters, and other related writings if you've enjoyed reading this erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com
 

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Discussion Starter #8
Hey all,
You can read the next chapter of my story - a long lost connection - on my blog erikvincentizakhia.wordpress.com/2017/12/28/meeting-my-twin-flame-a-long-lost-connection/
You can also subscribe via e-mail if you want be updated each time I write a new chapter.
I would have liked to continue posting it here, but I'm afraid to lose the rights on it. And beyond, it's more agreeable to read on the blog.
 
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