Once upon a time I wrote that. Very astute, methinks.
:)
And hasn't it been too long since I've written something here from me, from I; from me about I; from me about T? Yes, too long. Too long. I've been worrying about the people who read this, and there can't be that many; and they can't matter because they won't say it
(hush a secret where's the secret where is it)
to me anyway because Were you invited?
Sometimes I wonder if the blue isn't losing its purpose; if I haven't become slowly, (slowly, slowly) someone who can manage her life without a miserable cry about it first. I use too many happy faces. I have learnt too well to smile. Is that not wonderful? Yes :) Except - I don't write as much as I used to. I can't: I keep thinking of other things instead. All my best thoughts are behind me; all I think of now are suburban dreams without the southern hemisphere. I wonder if the end is what made me happy - this freedom from the five years. Victory, victory! A lesson learned and the guerdon of a self one can love. I don't want to think it; it is a solution almost insulting in its simplicity.
One likes to take credit for one's triumphs.
I have wandered back through the blue, and I am afraid I have been clueless (oh, clueless) Has it really been eight months? Eight? And still it's only now that you are ready to say it? And not even ready! For that question there should be only one answer, not a mess of shuffling guesses and fluctuating feelings. I tell myself that I wouldn't imagine something that wasn't there. I tell myself that my instincts are better than that. (Have I not always known?)
I tell myself that this time it will be different.
The odd thing is that I'm not unhappy. Is that not odd? I've been unhappy over boys. I've worried and cried and spent sleepless nights wishing I were dead. I've begged and pleaded and demanded - how do you feel about me? I've hated them for pushing me away, for running away, for suddenly realizing they cannot bear to spend time around me - needy clingy desperate woman that I am. I have done it the other way; run because I didn't want to be there in that position in that situation - and I have always drawn that line. Now there is no line.
And yet I'm not unhappy. Does that mean anything?
I want to believe I've learnt from past experiences; that I've become wiser and calmer and more mature; that I am no longer that child screaming to be loved. I want to believe it; and at times I can convince myself it's true. Is this simply an illusion I've created because I want it to be true? I don't know.
i see that i've stopped writing the blue as though it were an extension of my brain. why did i do that? why am i still wishing for a single person to be reading this? and what does it mean that i want him to read not the content, but the other things; me! me in these words! and does he know how i feel about him at all? all the old posts have lost their secrets. it feels strange to pass them by and read them as i would a stranger's and think - i know what that could feel like, i know. the first time i read non-sensei i ached to think of a love like that. if i had a wish it would be to be loved with words. is that stupid? selfish? and what if i am married not to the one i love but to someone chosen for me by parents grandparents loving relatives; a software engineer who says too when he means to and of when he means off and vice versa verce visa, oh, even if he willingly corrects himself if i tell him it's wrong, thank you dear, and what will i do?
the words must be loved.
as much as i do. as much as i do.
:)
And hasn't it been too long since I've written something here from me, from I; from me about I; from me about T? Yes, too long. Too long. I've been worrying about the people who read this, and there can't be that many; and they can't matter because they won't say it
(hush a secret where's the secret where is it)
to me anyway because Were you invited?
Sometimes I wonder if the blue isn't losing its purpose; if I haven't become slowly, (slowly, slowly) someone who can manage her life without a miserable cry about it first. I use too many happy faces. I have learnt too well to smile. Is that not wonderful? Yes :) Except - I don't write as much as I used to. I can't: I keep thinking of other things instead. All my best thoughts are behind me; all I think of now are suburban dreams without the southern hemisphere. I wonder if the end is what made me happy - this freedom from the five years. Victory, victory! A lesson learned and the guerdon of a self one can love. I don't want to think it; it is a solution almost insulting in its simplicity.
One likes to take credit for one's triumphs.
I have wandered back through the blue, and I am afraid I have been clueless (oh, clueless) Has it really been eight months? Eight? And still it's only now that you are ready to say it? And not even ready! For that question there should be only one answer, not a mess of shuffling guesses and fluctuating feelings. I tell myself that I wouldn't imagine something that wasn't there. I tell myself that my instincts are better than that. (Have I not always known?)
I tell myself that this time it will be different.
The odd thing is that I'm not unhappy. Is that not odd? I've been unhappy over boys. I've worried and cried and spent sleepless nights wishing I were dead. I've begged and pleaded and demanded - how do you feel about me? I've hated them for pushing me away, for running away, for suddenly realizing they cannot bear to spend time around me - needy clingy desperate woman that I am. I have done it the other way; run because I didn't want to be there in that position in that situation - and I have always drawn that line. Now there is no line.
And yet I'm not unhappy. Does that mean anything?
I want to believe I've learnt from past experiences; that I've become wiser and calmer and more mature; that I am no longer that child screaming to be loved. I want to believe it; and at times I can convince myself it's true. Is this simply an illusion I've created because I want it to be true? I don't know.
i see that i've stopped writing the blue as though it were an extension of my brain. why did i do that? why am i still wishing for a single person to be reading this? and what does it mean that i want him to read not the content, but the other things; me! me in these words! and does he know how i feel about him at all? all the old posts have lost their secrets. it feels strange to pass them by and read them as i would a stranger's and think - i know what that could feel like, i know. the first time i read non-sensei i ached to think of a love like that. if i had a wish it would be to be loved with words. is that stupid? selfish? and what if i am married not to the one i love but to someone chosen for me by parents grandparents loving relatives; a software engineer who says too when he means to and of when he means off and vice versa verce visa, oh, even if he willingly corrects himself if i tell him it's wrong, thank you dear, and what will i do?
the words must be loved.
as much as i do. as much as i do.
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