Eleven Minutes

From Maria's diary, on a day when she had her period and couldn't work

If I were to tell someone about my life today, I could

do it in a way that would make them think me a

brave, happy, independent woman. Rubbish: I am not

even allowed to mention the only word that is more

important than the eleven minutes--love.

All my life, I thought love as some kind of vol-

untary enslavement. Well, that's a lie: freedom only

exists when love is present. The person who gives him 

or herself wholly, the person who feels freest, is the 

person who loves most wholeheartedly.

And the person who loves wholeheartedly feels

free.

That is why, regardless of what I might experience, 

do or learn, nothing makes sense. I hope this time passes

quickly, so that I can resume my search for myself--in 

the form of a man who understands me and does not

make me suffer.

But what am I saying? In love, no one can harm

anyone else; we are each of us responsible for our own 

feelings and cannot blame someone else for what we

feel.

It hurt when I lost each of the various men I 

fell in love with. Now, though, I am convinced that no one 

loses anyone, because no one owns anyone.

This is the true experience of freedom: having the 

most important thing in the world without owning it. 

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