Six months.

Six months ago, I felt strange. So I decided to start a blog. This blog. I can’t believe it’s already that long, but yeah. I originally thought of something different for this occasion, doing a little writeup with statistics and stuff, but I think what I’m going to do now is just as good. I do want to write a letter to someone, but it is kind of complicated. I know that this person knows about this blog, and since 90 percent of it is about her, she might read here sometimes. But maybe I’m just naïve, but that isn’t even important. I just need to get that off my chest and I really can’t send it to her, because the whole concept of our (non-existing) relationship is against it. So… yeah.

Hey you.

I’m not sure where you are right now, if you’re still here or already in Ireland, but that doesn’t really matter. It’s a little over six months now that we broke up. It’s been three months or so that we last had any contact. We never had the chance to clear things up between us, and this just drives me crazy. I know you’re mad at me, even though I don’t know why. I always thought I’d do what you wanted, but maybe I misunderstood something. Maybe you don’t know what you want.

I know you found some new friends after I left your life. I know you got some of your old friends back. I’m glad that everything seems to work out so well for you. That you were able to replace me so easily, as bitter as this sounds. I wasn’t. There is still just one big nothing were you used to be. I don’t blame you. It’s just how it is.

You asked me once if I regret anything I did. I told you no. And today, after the worst six months of my life, I’d still say this. I might would have changed some things. I would have told you earlier how I felt. I wouldn’t try to hold on to things that just didn’t work. I wouldn’t let you go so easily. But in the end, there is really nothing I can do. I can’t know if our story has found its end, or if we might get a second chance someday. I remember things you told me, things we talked about. I know the future is unpredictable. So, who knows.

I know you’re mad at me. I’m not sure why. You told me there is no space for me in your life, and so I choose to leave. I tried as hard as I could, and I never meant to hurt you. If I did, I apologize, it wasn’t on purpose. It was a difficult situation and I did my best. I avoided you where I could, and where I couldn’t I tried to just ignore you. It maybe wasn’t the politest way to do, but it was the best. That’s why I gave up my job. Even the slightest possibility of seeing you was to much.

I still have dreams of you. Of us. They’re different, though. We don’t fight. We’re just happy. They’re not real, and I know that even in my dreams. Still, subconsciously, I hope every time I go to bed that we… meet. You’re not the only one I’m dreaming of, but most of the time, it is you. I don’t know what it means. I don’t really miss you. I learned to live without you. Someday I will find someone, who makes me feel like this again. Who changes me like you did. Maybe then the dreams will disappear. I don’t know.

Sometimes, when I’m going for a walk with the dog, I return and am disappointed that your car isn’t in the driveway. I still hope that some day you just come back and apologize, that somehow we start over, even though I don’t know how. Sometimes I think I’m over you, and sometimes I miss you. Sometimes I just miss being with somebody. I think you would be proud of me. You showed me how to live on my own, to be independent. To not rely on people who always let me down. You changed me. And being with you was the best time of my life. You showed me what real love was, even if it was for such short time. I’m thankful for everything you did. And maybe this is just a sign for how broken I am. Who knows.

There is one last thing I want to tell you. Everything I am now is what you made of me. I used this line in some of my poems, and in some of my songs. Everything I am is what you made of me. Just think about it.

So, I’m not sure if you ever read this, but as I said, this is not the point of this letter. I think you’ll get the point, because you know me probably as good as no one else.


PS: you (or your mother) still have one of my books, so if it finds its way back to me somehow, I know you’ve read this. Just saying.

About Sebastian

I am.
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