Let’s not be friends.

For any woman who now enters my life and wants to be purely friends with me, I’ll flee from her as if I saw a ghost. Or, I will ghost her.

At this point in my life, I’m only interested in love, a woman to love. And I cannot anymore give love under the guise of friendship.

I’m in the same boat as Vincent Van Gogh when he wrote to his brother Theo on December 23, 1881:

“I’d like to be with a woman, I can’t live without love, without a woman. I wouldn’t care a fig for life if there wasn’t something infinite, something deep, something real.”

A woman’s friendship is a ghost lurking on the earth for many years now. A cowardly and stupid ghost who can’t see when a real love presents itself and is scared of it. So shallow and prideful, running after all kinds of vapid things to which she assigns unnecessary importance. I want nothing to do with such women.

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