Coal & Diamond

11:08 a.m.

Seven hours of sleep — not bad. I should be working on my client’s website, but here we are again. Another dream.

I was with three friends I’d met through Patrick, one of them Francis. We each drove separate vans toward a destination. The first two arrived easily; the rest of us got lost but eventually regrouped at an industrial complex. The view shifted to a bird’s-eye, like a 2D RPG — isometric, distant, mechanical. We navigated dead ends until we all met at the clearing. Level complete.

Then the scene changed. I was in a basement with a Chinese girl in a blue-and-white maid’s dress, hair in twin pixie tails, her top unbuttoned. We made love. Afterward, she cuddled against me, gentle and warm, waiting.

I told her, carefully, that I liked her — that I knew she cared, but I had priorities. She nodded, not happy, but understanding. I felt like shit, yet relieved. The truth was clear: she wasn’t what I wanted, though she embodied many things I admired — sweetness, sensuality, consideration.

Maybe she represented the part of me that longs for simplicity — comfort, refuge, connection — while another part wants freedom, flirtation, movement. I’ve always been split between the two: one man seeking depth, another seeking air.

I know what I want, but I rarely say it. It’s too long to explain. I want someone strong, witty, sexual — but also kind, perceptive, emotionally open. Someone who can shed her armour in private yet carry herself with grace in public. Someone who could be my match and my mirror.

The problem is, I don’t believe I deserve her. Someone like that would travel, explore, thrive. I’m a cuttlefish — confident but anchored to the familiar, unless I’m already adrift somewhere far from home.

I thought about Patrick — how long he’s been without intimacy — and wondered if I’d choose the same. Not out of failure, but intention. I don’t crave relationships anymore; I just want to build stability for my family. If love arrives, fine. If not, also fine.

I’ve given so much of myself before — hours, years — to make people smile. Once, a friend told me about a childhood book she’d lost. No title, just a story about elves and cookies and a troll. It took me a year to find it. When she held it again, she was radiant. That was enough.

Could I do that again? Maybe. Do I want to? Not really.

My ideal woman isn’t about perfection — it’s about wholeness. Someone who’s gorgeous because of her flaws, not despite them. She’d show me how to be human again, to stop overthinking and just see.

She’d complement my life — maybe even complete its emotional structure.

But for now, that’s enough confessional for one morning. Don’t expect me to spill like this again anytime soon.

12:11 p.m.