hornéd

Because of course I love him? "Pyaar isi ko kehte hain", and I'm still not sure. I'm confused. I'm... scared.
I went away for the weekend with friends and spent two days away from everything, and the minute it was time to leave and get back to the real world he was in my head again.
I joined groups and made new friends and attended the most fascinating events, and every time there was a reason to (and sometimes when there was none), I connected it back to him.

I'm afraid that I don't remember him right. I'm afraid I'm imagining things again. I'm.

I just miss him so. And not in a way that makes me cry or want to die; just in a by-the-way accompaniment to every other thing. It tints my life. And he isn't here, and he doesn't care, and I wish I would just fall in love with someone who loved me back.

getting

worse every day.

counting

there aren't enough numbers.

around the same time

mostly i manage. i do. i don't suffer from a lack of things to do, as i suffered last december. on the contrary: it's all i can do to get the things done that i want to get done. and most of the time i manage to be rather pleasant, even if i do not extend it to being utterly happy.
once in a while, though, i wake up at four in the morning and can't get back to sleep because i miss you with such abandon. i've used that word before, haven't i? recklessness, then. reckless abandon. vehemence. i miss you with more vim and vigour than i put into most other activities.
my conscious life is populated with gaping spaces that nobody else can fill. funny how that is. i've stopped analysing the validity of my feelings. i think, perhaps, that it was a sensible decision to make. worry causes no good; only ulcers and hair loss.

so many adventures. i wish you were around so i could tell you. you have no idea how many seconds of the day i wish it. all my brightest moments were lost with our conversations. if you found out they meant so much to me, why were you so cruel as to take them right away?

but.

You do not help at all.

returned to sender.

People are careless sometimes. (This is what I tell myself, soon after someone has said or done something that drops topples my world about my ears.) They usually don't mean to hurt, but they end up doing it anyway - and most of the nicer people manage to be of the kind who will actually apologize when you tell them they've hurt you.

I will say something selfish and honest now. I want an apology. You probably think you've apologized already, or that it wasn't important to warrant any further discussion or whatever, but it still preys on my mind from time to time. I don't like that.
So I would like you to please apologize for not calling or emailing or showing any of the concern I would have expected from any other person I might have gone to meet. And for not noticing how much it bothered me, even though I tried telling you a hundred times afterwards.

Also - it felt so unfair to me that you could demand sensitivity of me as a friend and not give it in return. Do you understand? This has nothing to do with how I feel about you, which is a huge awkward unwieldy beastie and something I'm not ready to deal with yet. This is just about how ill-used I felt.
As a friend, not as anything else.

Okay, that's all. :)

I hope you'll still be talking to me.

the sunshine

i do not like his writing when he writes. i will never dare to tell him now. not because i am afraid it will damage his ego, or because it will hurt his feelings, because the time for such qualms should have passed a long time ago. no, it is because i do not dare to say something that might be tinged with spite. save me from ever being spiteful, dear.
how easily the affectation of affection leads us to be untrue! and how fragile the ego of a writer! how did i escape that flaw that will hate all those who do not appreciate my writing, when i cannot separate myself from it if i tried? perhaps it is because i do not even have enough ego to hate those who do not appreciate my self.

how many ever times you ask them, they rarely see until it is far too late exactly how much company means to you. how, how, how could he not have known? no dearth of signs, surely?
i think, perhaps, it has passed the point of no return without my noticing.
i do not know if i will ever think of him as a friend now. i, who would even suffer discomfort for the people i deemed friends. he will not know, which is not altogether a bad thing. it is easier to stop caring about someone when you cannot convince yourself of their compassion.

what bothers me the most, perhaps, is fact that my intuition seems to grow worse every passing year. am i that poor a judge of character? do i only choose to love people who are not worthy of my love? or is it that it my love that is not worthy, or not right, or not of the kind that will ever find someone worthy? or is it just that i am a person nobody else can stand to put up with beyond the largest of boundaries?
dangerous questions, all. answers yes are the reason it takes twice as much effort to keep the smile on my face now. oh, it hurts to be so alone in my head.

in real time

why is it so hard? it's five in the morning and there is an enormous band across my chest (henry, i think the carriage is breaking) where the noun-of-despise is.
there; he's gone.

again, at eight. it is all my life is worth. so hush, and be careful. even obsessive commas will forgive you.

nobody to talk to

repetition repetition repetition
see the pretty meta?

i am single-minded and narrow minded and closed in the head. what do they call people who have only the one thought?
i wish i weren't so terribly unpleasant and unpleasing and impossible to spend more than two moments with. what is the use of being a human if you cannot think anything but one thing? every day is meaningless and heavy and so hard to look forward to. "what do you do for fun?" i would have answered very differently last year.
will i say it again?
there is nobody left to talk to because i will only be a crashing bore if i open my mouth at this point. which of my amiable acquaintances wants a lovesick puppy pouring grievances into their ears? oh, none except those i would not turn to. how will you help me when i don't want to be helped?

i am afraid of being cured because i fear it will make me forget.

"She had got her mood onto paper. This is the release that all writers, even the feeblest, seek for as all men seek for love; and, having found it, they doze off happily into dreams and trouble their hearts no further."