From Maria’s diary:
What does this painter want from me? Doesn’t he realize that we are from different countries, cultures and sexes? Does he think I know more about pleasure than he does and wants to learn something from me?

Why didn’t he say something else to me, apart from “I’m here as a customer”? It would have been so easy for him to say “I missed you”, or “I really enjoyed the afternoon we spent together.” I would respond in the same way (I’m a professional), but he should understand my insecurities, because I’m a woman, I’m fragile, and when I’m in that place, I’m a different person.

He’s a man. He’s an artist. He should understand that the great aim of every human being is to understand the meaning of total love. Love is not to be found in someone else, but in ourselves; we simply awaken it. But in order to do that, we need the other person. The universe only makes sense when we have someone to share our feelings with.

He says he’s tired of sex. So am I, and yet neither of us really knows what that means. We are allowing some of the most important things in life to die – he should have saved me, I should have saved him, but he left me no choice.

*bold letters are my own.

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I read Paulo Coelho’s Eleven Minutes for practically the entire day last Monday. It’s about the story of Maria, a prostitute. Well. It was probably the best thing I’ve ever read for ages. Some of my views about love and pain would be forever changed because of this novel.

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What a difference one day makes. The week has barely started, and yet it’s already the middle of the week. Galing. Sana palaging holiday ang Monday, hehehe.:D