I have a secret. I choose to share it with someone. That someone ignores me completely. Moreover, she accuses me of… I don’t know what exactly but it has to do with making up a different life and introducing it to everyone just so they will be interested. Very well.

I have a secret. I keep it to myself. I live with it everyday and every single day it accuses me of… cowardice. Why can’t I be able to turn it into something more meaningful. Just wonderful.

I have a secret. That secret is actually a person. He asked me out, paid for my absinthe and proposed to me using managerial and economic terms to be his wife. I thought it was a joke and I said yes. Now I have a ring on my finger and lots of questions. Simply extraordinary.

We went out for a cup of coffee. He started explaining something about Graham’s number, googolplex, the infinite theory… From all this something did catch my attention. A very interesting and slightly plausible presumption which insisted on “all history repeats itself”. How it is possible for us to always live in the past and never have the privilege to experience the future.

‘This is certainly not mathematics. This is hobo-philosophy.’

‘So? Math is still a philosophy.’

It doesn’t matter anyway.

I’ve been trying very hard for some time to leave some past experiences way behind. Meaning not recognizing my own history, not recollecting any memories and, of course, the constantly running away from anything that could pull me back. Of course, what dangerous past can I have, an 18-year-old girl who hasn’t even figured everything out yet? You know, maybe it was this guy, it’s the most common story of all. Or maybe some trauma concerning the parents. Some really bad decisions? Some lies innocently offered but turned back stabbing the way out? This feeling that everything could happen again anytime is rather insufferable.

So we will never talk about it. Eternal negation. Seriously, all stays wherever it was left. The trips to the seaside where everything seemed natural and alcoholic. The nights on the island where everything started with a joint and ended with someone floating breathless in the water. The pretentious parties where you could find anything. That beer I accidentally stole from that guy on New Year’s Eve. The sound of broken glass. The urine test. The placebo effect. You. Yes, it was this guy. Yes, it was parental trauma. Yes, there were some bad decisions. And a whole lot of lies.

But no, we will never talk about it.