I don't know what's going on today.
I used to have you all figured out. Then you opened my eyes to something, to someone more.
You've always made me smile. Suddenly, you've made me think. Suddenly, you've made me see beyond myself for the first time in too long.
I don't know what's going on, though. Two days ago, you held my hand like one of us was drowning. Yesterday you wouldn't look me in the eye.
Are you letting go before the journey's even begun?
Or am I misinterpreting the silences? Without words, I have little to go on, little to learn from, little to think about. So I throw my words into cyberspace, and mull over everything you've said to me lately.
Perhaps I'm doing too much of that.
It's just that I've only now discovered in you a promise, a poem, a padlocked door, *something* that I'd given up expecting to find. I want to get to know more than the whispers I hear.
But I feel like I'm waiting on a verdict, not a discussion. Why should I feel this way? Is it something inherent in me that expects to have no more say? I have been in a similar position before -- did I anticipate my way into endings those times before, am I doing it again?
Can I do something better than wait?
I wanted to bring you flowers last night. But I felt like that might be going too far... but then you waved me over to sit with you and the other ladies... but then... ah, there are always these little things to interpret, are there not? Why do I spend so much time, so much energy hunting for meaning in these meaningless minutiae?
Because I want to understand you. I want to explain you, to get to know you. So my subconscious goes wild, picking at every detail, the turn of a hand, the hesitation of a smile, the loudness of a laugh. Something in me wants to believe there are answers in there, if only for an instant.
Who are you? I'd like to know. I'd like to get to know you. Flaws and strengths, joy and sorrow, and all the gray areas in between...
And in the meantime, I don't know what's going on. You're getting ready to leave. Will you take that journey alone?
You and I, we used to be just friends. But that's an exaggeration, when I realize how little I seem to know of you, and, I think, how little you know of me. Now, we're something more. Or we've started to be. Why do I feel like you don't want that?
Is it something in me that makes me see you turn away? Is it real, or hallucination? Fear, sorrow, fatalism, pessimism?
From the first time I saw you, sang with you, worked with you, I felt your pull. I mocked the glom-satellites you bore, but I understood them. Perhaps they were wiser than I; at least they showed their true colors, their true interest in you. Now, it seems, I've held myself back too long to have hope for more.
From the first, I wanted you, and feared your rejection. Now, I'm so close to hope and to failure I can taste both in equal parts.
Always, I reach this position, and I feel that I can do nothing, say nothing to affect the outcome. Why not? Why shouldn't I pick up the phone, the pen, and tell you how I feel about you, about what could be us? Why do I feel like that would be meddling? That you're busy enough with your concerns, that I shouldn't bother you with mine?
How absurd is that?
A part of me wants to simply point you to these diary entries, thinking that they express my mind pretty clearly. But that's not dialogue, that's not a conversation. That's asking you to look at my thoughts, when what I want is to know yours, to learn how we fit to one another.
So I should call you. Except you're busy. You really are busy.
I don't know where this is going. I don't know where any of this
is going. I just hope it's going somewhere -- not ending before
we've begun.