I love my past, I love my present. I am not ashamed of what I have had, and I am not sad because I no longer have it.
It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.
The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike.
My true friends have always given me that supreme proof of devotion, a spontaneous aversion for the man I loved.
