a notice (revised)

Being lonely…
For the first time in a long time I was ready to do that… after more than a month in loneliness (I don’t even know how to correctly spell this word) and twice being drunk by myself, I finally considered it to be normal. Be alone. Drink alone. Think as if it was all ok.
And face it.
And write in another language. As if it was normal.
So… the story. About a girl. In still strange country.
In absolutely changed circumstances I was there. Without any fear to be myself. To experience the feelings I have inside. No tears. Not this time. Not any more…
I never considered myself as being desperate. I still hope I’m not. But the fact that something changed thrilled me… I was able to catch myself thinking in another language. In doing things I thought I would never do alone… twice…
So for the second time in my life I opened a bottle of wine. Just for myself. And drank it alone.
All of it. Just me.
First time it happened a week or so ago. It was strange. Pathetic in some respect. But this time it felt differently. I could have someone around me if I wanted to. But it was ok just to enjoy me. So glass of wine after another one. I never thought I could think in another language. So naturally. And then it came. Just me. By myself. With no fear of being alone. And lonely. I didn’t have to do that. Even though I chose to. And it felt good.
After some glasses of wine (just for a record: I don’t smoke) I decided to have a cigarette. It always made me feel so dizzy in a good way. Just this time it was different cause I didn’t have anyone to initiate me to have it with… it was just me. So I was smoking. By myself. No reason. It was good. Then I realised that all lonely writers, Dostoyevsky, Hesse, Hemingvey, should have all been smoking… all those gorgeous piece of writing came from people who once in a while felt alone. Not just because they had to be so but because they either chose it or the faith forced them to be that… no guilt, no sacrifice… just me, myself and I…