...And I was claiming myself to be mature. No, I still cry like a child, hiding my face in my hands so that no one can see me. Oddly enough, even when I'm alone.
Speaking of hands, I really do have a kitsch for them. It most probably comes from the early 1990s when I... no, "the early 1990s" makes me feel like an antique china pot. Anyways, when I was a child I often used to compare my little finger to that of my father. Still do. And it still seems to be tiny in comparison.
Perhaps that's why when I need some kind of reassurance, I often have to clutch someone's finger - that's probably all that remained from a skinny lively blonde worshiping her father. He let me go, he let me learn, he let me live. I stumbled. I stood up. He's too far away now, I left him behind, I cannot reach his finger.
I'll get over this childish fear, I promise.
Except, not now. Not quite yet.
Some day... When I'm older.
Picture : him. Dubai, January 2010.
