A story which I know the end.

I am watching, just before my very eyes and being, the unfolding of a story of which I already know the end. And just as a Greek tragedy, I appear incapable to turn the tide or grasp the reins of fate. Destiny looks closer now, more real, not like an absurd concept, but as the reality I must face and to which I turned away. Such naiveness is not, or at least shouldn't be suitable in me.

As days go by, I become aware of the overwhelming waves of feelings inside me. Also noticed what is, what can be, and the possibilities. None of them favor me. And the come back to myself. Questioning the whens, the hows, and above all, the whys. Why again?

I see their orbit gravitating away from my, but the knowledge seems to be useless in this case. No matter how much I repeat to myself the ending of the story, the feeling doesn't go away.

This bloody (in an English jargon way) mixture of need, of longing, of caring. The senseless paradox of having to deal at the same time with the pain of knowing that the brief and simple contact that I have is all that I am going to have; the suffering of having to listen from the beloved one the affections towards someone else, that I'm not going to be the target of that affection ever. And, in spite of all these, yearning for closeness, for a simple touch, a shake of hands, even the smallest crumb of it would bring some relief.

Yet, once again. The end of the story is already written, even if my sight is too short to notice. Then, how did I become trapped in such a box with no exits, where the situation is: to lose and/or to lose. When no matter the outcome or what I do there will be suffering. Dosed or in a hurtful blast.

I just want to get out. I don't want to cheat myself. I want to extinguish once and for all the hope. And my feelings towards...