None of the men who loved me ever told me I was beautiful.None of them wanted to lie to me. They loved my soul, my character, the complete devotion with which I loved them 

None of them thought that, since I was in love with words, I would have liked to be lied beautifully, at least once. Only late, too late, when I started feeling well in my own skin without wanting to be beautiful for anyone else, the only man who never pretended to love me praised my still alive body, my face still unaltered by meanness and made me see myself in a new mirror.

To the men for whom I wasn't enough and to those for whom I was too much, thank you for teaching me to love myself!

Thalassa, the Greek name of the sea has the rustle of foamy waves in it.

In my half-century life, there have only been 4 years without the sea. I could not go on without feeling the sand under my toes, without the taste of salty drops or the song of the breeze. The beach is waiting for my footprints and shells whisper my name. The waves still remember the shape of my body and my skin is reminiscent of the summer carress.

Once he wrote my name in the sand and no wave dared erase it. Once I forgave his sins and let him sew the pieces of my broken heart back together.His lovely locks are gone and he has salt in his hair but his tongue still sings to my naked soul.

 I love him with a love as eternal as the sea, calm or stormy, clear or entangled in fears. 

I no longer know how to be truly depressed. I forgot how to cry or even to weep in silence. I forgot how to feel lonely even when I am alone for hours. Strangely enough, I am a pleasant company to myself. There are thoughts to be intertwinned, lines to read and write, music to listen and sing-yes, sing, sorry for my neighbours! 

If I don't like what I see in the mirror, tomorrow will be a better day for sure. If there are aches and pains I know they will fortunately pass. I f he does not call exactly when i need him to, there is certainly a good reason for that and I can always call anytime. And when there is no food in the fridge and no hope, there are always friends to fill my belly and my soul.

My life would be better if I were not so proud. But there are always the seagulls floating in the cloudy sky, dreaming of a far-away sea.

There have been countless springs in my life when I did not even dare to expect something good to happen. The beauty of a tree in bloom just used to make me shed a few tears, cause my soul was asleep, trying hard to heal its wounds. There has always been someone well cuddled in it, though not next to me. Yet, even in my hardest times, every little leaf or blade of grass seemed to me a miracle worth admiring.I was just like the young cherry tree in a forgotten garden, springing its  blooming branches to the sky in a self-giving gesture of pure beauty.

Now that I have come back to life and am no longer alone, I count the fiftieth spring of my life with care for its frailty. The white petals have covered the scars of my soul and drowned its wailing,but flowers wither , spring passes, love changes. I cannot stop time from flying away, I can't help but weep over the butterflies that die.

Today of all days I should allow myself to dive into my memories.Were I to get old and sane, I would have time to write my story, for each friend of mine knows only bits and pieces....

I never look back. Years ago, after many a day spent  remembering moments and people, I swore to cease this dangerous habit.

Life is to be lived every moment.

And I did. I had 49 years and 364 days of a life full of joy, of sadness, of pain and betrayal,   but most of all, a life full of love.

If I am to vanish tomorrow, a son and a lover would know I lived to love them and cherish their love in return.

I've had more than a fair share of love 'cause I've lived for loving. Is there a better way of living?

The honey light of autumn makes me muse about my idea of love. My love cannot be lukewarm, it has to endlessly burn with dancing flames . My love cannot use all its fuel , for each day I find new reasons for loving him.

I still wonder why iy cannot be the same for him or for any other man I know.Why the predators, once satisfied with catching thier prey, cease finding any joy in the catch. Is it no longer desirable, no longer worth loving? Is it really necessary for a new hunter to want it so as to make him afraid of losing it ? Is jealousy really necessary to see again the value of his prey?

In vain did I get older, I haven't learnt to love less, to want less from the significant one. I once was someone's first love, will I succeed in being someone else's last?

For the first time in a long while I overestimated myself , thinking I could do it without help. Yet, unfortunately for me, my computer abilities leave a lot to be desired and my eagerness deflated like a baloon that was stung in a rose thorn...This so-called blog will remain nothing more than a diary.

Greyish clouds gather in the evening sky, not threatening with any noisy scolding of the mortals but anyway touching me with a wing of sadness.Slowly yet unavoidably, autumn is coming, and I can do nothing about it.

I was asked today if I was still in love. The hidden meaning was if I was still so madly in love, so addicted to my passion as I used to be in summer, two summers ago. I replied without hesitation, yet my love is no longer scorching but rather like a ripe fruit, sweet, certain...

I love the beginning of autumn for the frenzy of colours. I love going to the market to admire all the shades of the grapes and apples and berries with names I have never known. I love the smells of fruit lazying in the sun, waiting to sweetly explode in our mouths.the synergy is magnificent, worth the trouble of elbowing my way through the crowd. I can never decide what to buy, I wish I could take everything home and eat only vegetables...I wish I could be a great chef and transform all these in delightful dishes ...I do try, though on a small scale, to put my feeble talent to use...

 I can hardly wait for the forests to turn yellow and copper and then perhaps the leaves of my auburn hair will match the hues of nature and I will no longer feel the pain of having been torn away from its bossom.

My mother must have been very sad to have such an ugly child as I was....especially because she had been a real beauty. Everyone kept asking her why she did not feed me, since I was so skinny, and no explanation about my being extremely picky seemed to satisfy them. So all her friends and aquaintances ended up by pitying her and being sorry for me...I felt their reluctance to play with me and rejected any mimicking by trying to act as an adult. I grew up very quickly because of that and could cope with conversation among adults, sometimes annoying them with smart replies, other times driving my parents out of thier minds with the way I stood aloof, as though autistic. I loved to let my imagination loose and live my stories with eyes wide open...

Yet mum, having been a natural beauty with big black eyes and curly dark hair , had never used anything but lipstick and thus had no idea how to make me look better. I became a skinny teenager who tried to hide her bony figure under fluffy skirts and gave her thin hair a sheep-like perm...It took me 35 years to get over the inhibitions and frustration of being plain. It took me a heart several times broken to stop waiting for prince charming who was eager to discover my beautiful soul..

 It took me 35 years till I dyed my hair red, put on a few kilos and raised my hair high. From that day on men seemed to discover that I existed, that I had a beautiful character, that I was worth loving. Children and men started telling me I was beautiful and sometimes I just couldn't suspect them of being false.

I hope to get to be 50. Strangely enough I now am more interesting than my mum was at that age, since , unlike her,I am more a woman than a mother, more interested in my appearance than she was, more self-confident. I will never be beautiful but I can draw attention upon me when I need it. Never again will I be ashamed of myself! 

My only regret is that mum has not lived to see me a woman...

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