Inscription: I am writing a story that is full of desire and betrayal. When all the dust settled, I realized that the story is just a story after all, and the reality is far more cruel than the truth of the story.
Beneath my quiet and gentle exterior, full of fascination and pursuit of unusual emotions, my soul tells me: Anna Isining, you are not an angel.
Yes, only I know that I am so desperate for an unusual love experience.
A year ago, I suppressed the excitement and anxiety after the derailment and walked out of this street. Hugo opened the car door and smiled and said: Can I take you for a while?
A year later, this street still loves my husband, he opened the car door as usual and said with a smile: Can I take you for a while? In a trance, I know that I can only go back to the original point, let go of the people and things I was once infatuated with, lost and gained.
Hugo's car drove slowly past the street where I met Henry and left him. Henry trailed in the back of the car on his bicycle, cheerfully maintaining his habit of being Hugo, my husband's close companion, and at the fork he left my sight with a relaxed farewell. Left me, is the window full of gray. His smile ripped apart my definition of love far more deeply than Joan's resentment.
My tears flowed silently and I cried because being a woman was so painful. I've loved Henry, I've loved Joan, and I've been so devoted when I love, I'm willing to give everything I can to fulfill their demands. However, I was cowardly. When Hugo's footsteps gradually sounded, I could only extinguish the burning desire in a panic, leaving Henry alone in the room, and using the body full of Henry's breath to block Hugo outside the door of truth. When Joan said Henry was listening next door, I again panicked and chose to flee, to Henry. Every time I want to cover up my betrayal, I instinctively choose to have sex with it. Perhaps, this is just a kind of proof and repayment.
I cry because my pain is gone. And the pain does not exist and I am so uncomfortable. It has always been believed that only pain can be born profound, and love is accompanied by pain and anxiety. Incredible emotions always come from the real world, which is far more profound and cruel than novels and movies. Reality eclipses all its replicas.
The entanglement of those bodies is so real, the joy is beyond words. That's something you can never reach with Hugo. The deformed and dirty desires in the eyes of the world fill my heart, and I give them the name of love. Yes, I love them, deeply. When Henry left, I found Joan, and when Joan left, I found Henry again. They are reincarnated in my life, burning my vigorous love desire, like rushing lava, rushing left and right to find an exit.
Joan doesn't love Henry, she loves Dostoevsky, who can write about his unusual life; Henry doesn't love me, he loves Dostoevsky's desires that make him Joan. Quan; however, I love Henry as well as Joan, so I hurt Joan, who loves me, and was hurt by Henry, who I thought I loved. The betrayed Joan faced me and Henry angrily, and threw away the pile of works that were named in the name of love. It was the works that Henry and I wrote for her with our bodies and our desires. Joan's departure finally broke us up.
There is no fair or unfair. If I choose to leave, I will leave Henry. If I choose to stay, I will stay with Hugo. Lost all pain, but also gained the right to cry. Those stories, floating in reality, are draped in a halo of yellow and old.
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