Atlantis is a prophesy,

unraveling before our eyes,

as Nostradamus' antichrists wake to rise.

Sea forces through brick,

tearing down one wall for each passing century.

Leaving corners and doorways,

monuments to a receding era.

Saturated with salt, the debris disintegrates,

the shore line lessens.

The city sinks,

water gathering up the years around travelers feet.

I should be studying The Amyloid Hypothesis. But it's Sunday so I'm checking postsecret and the modern love column.

I've been homeless here as per usual. My clothes etc. live in a room and I live no where. I sleep at Sam F.'s most nights. He asks me to stay and I wake up encompassed in arms and blinking into steady green eyes. I may love him. If I say it and it becomes real I'll collapse I think.

I have hang-ups, and how could I not? With My ex boyfriend next door at all times. I came back this morning and showered to find condoms in the trash, used by him...but sponsored by me. They are ones that I don't like/use that I got for free from pride-fest in Chelsea this past summer. Childishly I took the rest that I had of them and put them on his bed and told him, "Could you cover them up in the trash next time? I'm glad to be sponsoring your sex however..." and he said "Sorry, I didn't throw those ones out"... which left me picturing that girl carrying a used, sad prophylactic away from the top bunk (his bed) and out into the hall over to the trash can.

Someone please console me. He rarely to never held my hand in public, I spent months thinking it was just how he was and respecting that...but in a weeks time of me saying no to him he'd picked up this girl and holds her hand and makes out with her etc. etc. when he never did that with me. It's strange, not jealousy... I don't want him, I don't even want to know him (a fact that makes me sad)... I just hate this seeming difference in his treatment of her.

I used to view dating as a steady progression, me advancing through ranks of boys and men. I learn things...but all it does is make me more picky. I suppose being selective is good. But all I see of it is me turning into this icy adult with ever-more requirements of the people I spend time with. Children will befriend anyone, forgetting hints and hurts in minutes... Adults hold grudges, plot revenge, cling to pain, and then add that sliver of injury to a list of things to avoid in relations with others from that day on. It feels as if I'm receiving invisible wrinkles, crows feet narrowing in my visual field for compassion.

I have no idea what to say here. London feels like any city. Bruge was different. I'm planning a trip to Croatia and Italy.
I've been drawing a lot more than writing... though I want to write so much.

All of my thoughts are sick. Taking menstrual blood on my hand and putting it on ex-boyfriend's bed-sheets, since he sleeps one room over. He lied to me (a lie of omission) and accidentally let it slip that he took LSD when we were together, I never said not to do it, I'm not entirely against it but he pointedly did not tell me... and he lied lied lied more and more to my face over and over with slanted comments... and I just want to hit him, kick him, I could yell and yell and he's this massive oozing void, that eats energy and then sulks on the sofa listening to Bon Iver and Fleet Foxes. I'm just this pent-up ball of perversion.

Not that I don't have a place to spend it. I sound so awful here in this, but really it's been wonderful and I'm falling for someone I never expected to meet... if you watch 6 Feet Under: I am Claire and he is Ted. He's kinder than I could fathom (thus I am sitting about with my magnifying glass searching for cracks) and has these green, forest, field, emerald eyes that he looks at me with (adoration, concern, pleasure) and I melt, and swim and soar and land back in bed when they look into my own sepia red glinty eyes. Sometimes I almost say "I love you" and then I know not to, maybe it's the incredible kindness that I am not used to and I don't want to mistake it for love... not yet. He strangles me sometimes, hold and let go... and I tumble (tomber en amour?) all the way down the sand dune into the ocean.

I wish I could let go better. How do I stop thinking about this boy I was never in love with... never passionately in love with... who never offered much, never asked me anything... who lied and lies and sulks and slinks about... and he just bothers me, his presence, his perceived patheticness... teach me how to sever these neural pathways... tell me how to let go.

They are both named Sam. I thought in bed it would be strange to say Sam now... but I never said it before I realized. I've never had someone who felt like a Lover before. I feel like Anais Nin, all sexual abandon and light. Teach me to forget. To try. I spent 10 months learning apathy, how to convey the least care and now I've forgotten how to be in love. It's flowing back in and it hurts like blood rushing back to your feet after you've been sitting on them. I have to sit about watching exbf discover his ability to convey care, but to someone else seconds off of crying and crying to me and asking for me and then crying and crying and threatening suicide... and then furiously making out with a girl who hooks up with everyone else on the weekends he is away, it's vile to watch. I can't pretend he doesn't exist despite my best efforts. It's miserable to speak with him and he acts as if he hasn't any idea that I find him to be a painful person to exist in the vicinity of.