Thursday, September 27


We were supposed to travel the world to climb and boulder, and occasionally visit on our rest days. We would have my kickass (TM) omelette for breakfast every-fucking-day, and, if travelling in the summer in cherry-capable countries, we were going to pig out on cherries and sour cherries etc., that we would not necessarily buy. One of us would remain crazy fit climbwise, thus giving the rest of us wusses the possibility to climb harder routes that we would otherwise be unable to setup or clear. We would almost all eat crazy spicy food all the fucking time, and wonder at the overall wussness of one of us. When not driving, I would have to be exiled to the back seat or tear Marian's heart out because I'm such a great co-pilot. When driving, I would take crazy pictures of the people sleeping in the backseat.

We were supposed to live happily ever-fucking-after. And we probably will. Just not together. This is my second time as a divorce kid, and what I have to say now is very simple: Fuck this shit. I was three when my father and mother divorced and I took my mother's side  for fifteen years (also aided by the fact that my father never wanted to see me), only to realize five more years later (I know, I'm slow) that things are not always black and white and that, as a person outside the couple, the most inconsiderate and presumptuous thing you can do is take sides. Or choose. I'm a divorce kid once more, as the glorious foursome that was has turned into a rotating 2+1 that still struggles to find balance and new magic. And it's not even a threesome as the +1 person is, six months down the track, still broken.

New trips are planned and new magic is scheduled, but the person that's missing (the -1 from above if you want) still looms. Sometimes I wonder if all of us would not be better off with having our memories completely erased. 

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