Mise à nu
How long has it been since I've written something here that was really worth hearing? I used to write all the time, introspective rambles to you, the void, that space between talking to yourself and addressing a crowd. I used to reach out my fingertips to those of you who are reading from the shadows, in secret, and wiggle them in a silent hello. I used to write letters to you, and sometimes you'd unmask yourselves and write one back.
Maybe I wrote more because I craved some mystery in my life, and each time you put something out there for anybody in the world to see, you get a surprise. There is danger, and inspiration, and magic in it.
A lot of people are gone since then, and I wonder about you who are still reading but not talking. What's happening to you? You, who are in New Zealand, you, who are on the mainland, you, who are on this same island, but as good as a thousand miles away. Even if we fought, even if we never clicked, even if it was just time for us to stop knowing each other, I miss you. Each person I've known has an individual flavor that they add to my life, and when they go, that flavor's absence is conspicuous. Sometimes I only miss it for a while, then adjust, and sometimes it comes back to me in waves, sometimes it's so powerful I want to write you again or pick up the phone or drive to your house in the middle of the night.
I don't say much now that really makes people think. I guess I put all my energy into making people laugh. This is a noble thing, I think, and I enjoy it, and most people would rather read a comic strip than a page long diatribe on existence and the need for affection. My comic has seemed to take over everything I used to write about, and the presence of love is currently negating my need to write long digital moans about the absence of it. Is this progress?
We're moving in together, The Boyfriend and I, into my apartment. Maybe I'm mostly doing it because I like his huge bed better than my little one. ;) I'm facing financial responsibility, my mother's empty nest anxiety and the threat of becoming a big girl, also the danger of the whole thing not working out. I have a good feeling about it, because someone has to.
I do this a lot. I'll start to write something and halfway through realize it's useless and a little silly, and just delete it. I don't think I'll do it this time. Plenty of things are useless and silly and are nice to have anyway.
It's funny... even now I'm thinking of more things to make you laugh instead of thinking about how to finish this. I suppose that means we know now what I'm supposed to do with my life.
I guess I just wanted to say that I love you. I don't think I say it enough so you know that I mean it.
Maybe I wrote more because I craved some mystery in my life, and each time you put something out there for anybody in the world to see, you get a surprise. There is danger, and inspiration, and magic in it.
A lot of people are gone since then, and I wonder about you who are still reading but not talking. What's happening to you? You, who are in New Zealand, you, who are on the mainland, you, who are on this same island, but as good as a thousand miles away. Even if we fought, even if we never clicked, even if it was just time for us to stop knowing each other, I miss you. Each person I've known has an individual flavor that they add to my life, and when they go, that flavor's absence is conspicuous. Sometimes I only miss it for a while, then adjust, and sometimes it comes back to me in waves, sometimes it's so powerful I want to write you again or pick up the phone or drive to your house in the middle of the night.
I don't say much now that really makes people think. I guess I put all my energy into making people laugh. This is a noble thing, I think, and I enjoy it, and most people would rather read a comic strip than a page long diatribe on existence and the need for affection. My comic has seemed to take over everything I used to write about, and the presence of love is currently negating my need to write long digital moans about the absence of it. Is this progress?
We're moving in together, The Boyfriend and I, into my apartment. Maybe I'm mostly doing it because I like his huge bed better than my little one. ;) I'm facing financial responsibility, my mother's empty nest anxiety and the threat of becoming a big girl, also the danger of the whole thing not working out. I have a good feeling about it, because someone has to.
I do this a lot. I'll start to write something and halfway through realize it's useless and a little silly, and just delete it. I don't think I'll do it this time. Plenty of things are useless and silly and are nice to have anyway.
It's funny... even now I'm thinking of more things to make you laugh instead of thinking about how to finish this. I suppose that means we know now what I'm supposed to do with my life.
I guess I just wanted to say that I love you. I don't think I say it enough so you know that I mean it.