I don't get you one bit.
Here we sit, day after day, in separate rooms on separate laptops, typing away. You're chatting to people you know I don't want you to be chatting to, I'm sitting here writing this and you have no idea. I wouldn't even turn this stupid thing on if it weren't for you doing it first. I remember a time when I was never online, could never be contacted by email, because we were always out doing something together. And now, it seems this is all you do. And that's... sad, really. I miss the old you.
I miss a lot of things I can't talk about under this roof. Dredging up the past is never a popular activity with men, it seems, and you have a mind like a sieve. My darling goldfish. But those things bother me still, and there is this space and this silence that I dare not fill.
All this time to kill, I think about writing more. I think about finally calling my publisher back. I think about all the years I have spent forgetting how to say beautiful things beautifully, forgetting how to tell stories, forgetting how to paint pictures or even just take pictures. I have forgotten so much art and so much creation, and the worst part is that it was of the purest form, fueled not by teenaged misery, but by the glorious freedom of youth. Even by being here now, I am letting things slip quietly from my to-do list. Things matter less now than they ever have, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.
I'm going to be honest: since I came back to this coast, I haven't had a lot of people to talk to. After four days of muffled and desperately hidden depression, I had one moment of honesty, but it's the casual coffeeshop chit-chat that I miss, that I crave. Perhaps that's why I'm finally giving in and writing here, at a time in my life when nothing has really seemed worth writing about at all. There is something I cannot quite reach, something waiting for me to reach it. Something I come close to when I truly believe I am able. And things that aren't that something just seem to slip away, unimportant. I wonder what that says about my character.
I wonder a lot about my character.
The frustration I see
when I tell you I'd like some company
breaks my heart.
How can you be so impartial?
I have made myself the fool
who's fallen for you.