I cried because I loved the street that got me out of Henry, and one day it will get me back to him.
I cry because the process of being a woman is so painful.
I cry more that my chances of crying will be less from now on.
I cry because the pain is gone,
and I am so uncomfortable when the pain does not exist.
Then I read Proust saying that love dies:
we do not feel physical pain when we hear her name, we do not tremble when we see her handwriting, we do not change our itinerary to meet her on the street, emotional Reality gradually becomes psychological reality, our spiritual status quo: apathy and oblivion. In fact, when we are in love, we foresee the end of the future, and it is this foresight that brings us to tears.
Is to remember.
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