I'm not writing this for you so much as I am writing this TO you. I doubt you'll ever read this or know that I am shamelessly quoting you currently.
Today has been short, so far.
I'm listening to "Autobahn" by Anberlin. I don't know that you would like it, though it makes me think of you. The simple idea of just driving, dreaming, etc.
I miss you. Miss you more than I have any right to.
I want to steal the title of the last blog you posted, yet I'm afraid it will catch your eye.
You told me once that I didn't know you. I think I know you a bit better than you care for me to. Or maybe that is simply my imagination.
Either way, I think it is unfair that you let me in so far and then not only do you bar the way, but you push me as far back as you can... I'm sitting on the outskirts, wondering what happened?
I am the person who believes it is my fault. I have always felt that it was my own fault if I were left behind. I did something wrong. I'm trying hard not to be that person.
I'm trying hard to not be that person.
Funny thing was that I came here to post about my novel and your last blog post (on a blog you probably only vaguely remember that you have) popped up first in my newsfeed. This wouldn't seem so odd except that I had just found a note you had written me in a notebook from 2005, the year we met.
And all the warm feelings I have for you came flooding back. Not that they ever really went away. If it is possible to have constant feelings for someone it would be for you.
Now I am listening to "Gooey" by Glass Animals... You mentioned British groups. I think you would like them.
I suppose finding that note and then seeing your posts were just meant for me today. I was meant to see them.
Its disconcerting for me, you know. All of these strong feelings and random actions. Random words that make me wonder if you ever really cared or if I was merely a person in a long deluge of people in your wonderland. Truly, your mind is a wonderland I would like to visit sometime.
I over think.
I over speak.
I am far too opinionated and many other things.
I feel like I should make myself smaller when I think about you. Like Alice, shrinking to get through the keyhole. Except, as much as I want you to see me, I'm afraid you don't like me because of what you see. Whether it is my face or my opinions or my writing.
You told me once that I needed to chill.
You told me once that you loved me.
These are things that I hold close when I try not to think about you or how we haven't spoken in months. And how much that really bothers me.
My texts to you have become little diary entries in a long line of silence.
I am rambling.
I never realized how much you write like your favorite author. I loved him before, but now I love him even more. Does that make me crazy?
Today has been short, so far.
I'm listening to "Autobahn" by Anberlin. I don't know that you would like it, though it makes me think of you. The simple idea of just driving, dreaming, etc.
I miss you. Miss you more than I have any right to.
I want to steal the title of the last blog you posted, yet I'm afraid it will catch your eye.
You told me once that I didn't know you. I think I know you a bit better than you care for me to. Or maybe that is simply my imagination.
Either way, I think it is unfair that you let me in so far and then not only do you bar the way, but you push me as far back as you can... I'm sitting on the outskirts, wondering what happened?
I am the person who believes it is my fault. I have always felt that it was my own fault if I were left behind. I did something wrong. I'm trying hard not to be that person.
I'm trying hard to not be that person.
Funny thing was that I came here to post about my novel and your last blog post (on a blog you probably only vaguely remember that you have) popped up first in my newsfeed. This wouldn't seem so odd except that I had just found a note you had written me in a notebook from 2005, the year we met.
And all the warm feelings I have for you came flooding back. Not that they ever really went away. If it is possible to have constant feelings for someone it would be for you.
Now I am listening to "Gooey" by Glass Animals... You mentioned British groups. I think you would like them.
I suppose finding that note and then seeing your posts were just meant for me today. I was meant to see them.
Its disconcerting for me, you know. All of these strong feelings and random actions. Random words that make me wonder if you ever really cared or if I was merely a person in a long deluge of people in your wonderland. Truly, your mind is a wonderland I would like to visit sometime.
I over think.
I over speak.
I am far too opinionated and many other things.
I feel like I should make myself smaller when I think about you. Like Alice, shrinking to get through the keyhole. Except, as much as I want you to see me, I'm afraid you don't like me because of what you see. Whether it is my face or my opinions or my writing.
You told me once that I needed to chill.
You told me once that you loved me.
These are things that I hold close when I try not to think about you or how we haven't spoken in months. And how much that really bothers me.
My texts to you have become little diary entries in a long line of silence.
I am rambling.
I never realized how much you write like your favorite author. I loved him before, but now I love him even more. Does that make me crazy?
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