“See, I will always have this penchant for what I call kamikaze women. I call them kamikazes because they, you know they crash their plane, they’re self-destructive. But they crash into you, and you die along with them.”

I’ve spoken recently with a friend of mine[1]. In a way it was something new – each of us trying to actually communicate instead of ignoring questions; each of us trying to be honest and stop pretending – even for a moment. He said he is afraid to let anything out. I said I understood (because how could I not?). Nevertheless, knowing what letting even a bit of your hermetically locked Inside may do to you, I’ve told him that he needs to be brave – even if only for me; even if only for a moment.

I am such a dick.

I remember when some time ago[2] something cracked in me. I’ve cried and allowed some of my secrets get out. Since then it seems that my surface isn’t holding anymore: at least not all of the time; definitely not everything. From time to time I patch it up, from time to time I think that if only I could wrap myself with a duct tape – I would be OK… And then I see another scratch, another fracture, another hole.

[1] it’s complicated. It always was. Through years we have always knew when not to ask certain questions, when to remain silent, when to push each other. It may have been as well this ‘could have been’ thing that never happened. We have gone through some drifting apart – always to discover that nothing changed; that we still know about each other more than anyone else, even when we sit in silence and just stare at the smoke coming out through my nose.

[2] maybe few months ago, maybe a little bit earlier.