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2009-04-23 - 6:16 p.m.

Sometimes I feel as if part of me is in a separate dimension. As if part of me is living another life.

That part of me, the other dimension, is with her. Fought to be with her. We are together in an awesome apartment.

I lay on the couch and watch her in the dining area we turned into an artist's area. She is painting. She is beautiful.

I am in the kitchen, cooking. She is leaning against the counter, a glass of wine in her hand, laughing as she tells me a story.

Every time she leaves me I forget what she looks like. I have vague ideas of curly hair, kind eyes, strength in everything in her. When she returns I am constantly, consistently struck with how beautiful she is. She is mine.

I live this other life, somewhere, somewhere far away, and I hate it. It feels as if I am cheating on everything here. I have an amazing girlfriend who I'm insanely grateful for.

Maybe it's just that I'm supposed to be a writer. Maybe what I have in me is just stories, novels to be written.

I feel as if if I give up on this other world, then part of me is lost.

I don't know.

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