Crap, it’s February + N things

Despite all efforts I will take to excuse and justify my silence, the truth is that not-writing feels really weird. Almost wrong, even. It feels like, in the last season of my college life when panic and desperation for life sets in, I should be writing more than any other time of my life. Surely, I have been trying, but I have seemingly run out of things to say — at least out loud.

I keep looking for quasi-drastic measures to take, such as changing my theme to something less pretentiously ~professional~ or keeping more paper on me than I’ll probably use. But I stopped writing. I have words, but they don’t reach my pen or my fingers. If I’m lucky (and/or in the right company), I get to say something. Getting them down, the most important part, is a skill that now eludes me.

I am pretty sure I did not come here to rant about my writer’s block, but here I am and I’ve forgotten what it was I wanted to write about. See what a mess my mind has been lately. It’s been full of clutter and secrets.

Speaking of secrets, what I do have a lot of are feelings. I have been feeling too much again lately, I am pretty sure it will be how I die. (If I ever die of no apparent causes, please insist that I be documented as having died of feeling too much.)

N things I want to say to n people right now
Anything may apply to more than one person

I think about you every now and then, just to ask myself how different things would be now if we had played a bigger part in each other’s lives. I think that anyone can impact anyone’s life given the right circumstances and timelines, but some people are just meant to react together, no matter what story you put them in. I think that’s what you and I are like, only we didn’t get enough of each other to rattle the room. I think we should have.

You’re a walking contradiction. You turn me into a light that can’t make up its mind: on, off, on, off. You give me words to say, but when I look at you they go away, as if they knew that they’re no match for you.

Befriending you was terrifying because it was too easy, and I had gotten used to friction. Friction slows me down, helps me think. You were lightning, strange and sudden electricity. I tried to write you off as fiction, impossible wish-fulfillment, but you refused to stay on the pages. You leaped up and enveloped me with overwhelming reality. I say I’m not scared of you, but I think you know me better by now.

Over time, it became a competition between which mattered more: how we felt versus how we didn’t feel. Everything was an option in the mix: happy, sad, mad, indifferent. I’m still not sure which won.

I’m sorry I let you down, and I’m sorry for all the lies you didn’t know I said. It used to be you who couldn’t promise total honesty to me, and in the end it was me that lost the point. I miss all the plans we made, but hope and I have never gone well together.

You are the only one to ever prove me wrong about myself and things I thought I believed in: about how long I could love someone without tiring, or how much of myself I could share without getting too scared.

I only tell you everything that matters, but it seems more than enough. That, or our souls speak to each other when our words fail. You are my soulmate, my best friend, the best love I’ve ever had. You are wonderfully lovely and I miss you every day.

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