I hate small talk

I hate small talk. I thought when I was alone in the dark while all my flatmates were deep in their sleep. Drops of water were falling on the roof outside. I wondered how I was always arrested by the sound of drops on the roof at night, no matter where it was in the house I lived with my parents, at the Grand Manolis, in the residence hall where I stayed during my four years in college, or at every apartment and studio I used to live in. Is it perhaps because it is the only sound you can hear at night?

I would love to talk to ALMOST everybody I know, to listen to their childhood, their love stories and share with them mine, their struggles and their thoughts. Is there anyone out there still awake at this hour like me? What are in their minds? I would love to hug them, to kiss them, men and women, and spend a night (with or without sex) with them, to know what human touch means and to what extent people can share their experiences and memories. I would love to spend hours on end with my mother in our garden back home, to tell her my romantic affairs and to listen to hers, to stare together at the sky above while millions of stars are shining on us. I would love to hug her and fall asleep as if I was a child, to feel her heartbeats and breaths.

I thought about how much I have changed since I left home at the age of fifteen.

On a night like this, before Patrick’s father was diagnosed with cancer, he would come and we would spend the night together. And so many times I thought, when we were making love, I would tell him I love him. But I held back. Even until I hugged him from behind and kissed his neck could I not tell him I love him.

I thought about the letter I would love to write to Thomas, but I would be unlikely to write because I was afraid that it would disturb him. How many letters are there that ones love to write but cannot? How many loves and sleepless nights have been flying high and fading away with time while ones age and die?

I thought about our time together. And in the end, he supposed that I did not love him but I was sorry for his love for me.

Can ones ever be known? Their deepest thoughts and desires? What in their minds when they are making love? Their self-hate and self-deceit? Can ones ever know what is in each other’s head and heart? Even their closest?

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