much ado about something
i must think that i am somebody special.
every time i read a certain diary (hint: it's on my buddy list), i am looking for reference to myself. (i also recall that i've written about this before.) every mention of "he" or of some sort of potential relationship makes me wonder if it's about me.
i'm almost positive that it isn't. for that matter, i know that it was at one point, and i didn't do anything about it. the reasons why are perhaps vague and probably not very good. age difference? uncertainty about her personality?
you know, oddly enough, i think that the biggest problem was that she didn't talk enough. i'm not used to facing eager curiosity; i'm used to being it.
even still, filled with this morbid curiosity about her desires, i know that i probably wouldn't do anything even if i had the chance, spelled out and plain in front of me. it's not that there's anything wrong with her. i don't know what it is. maybe i am afraid of committing. maybe i am afraid of facing obstacles.
maybe if i were a different person.
i have to wonder now about the effects of what i am writing. i believe that the person i'm writing about will read this. will she figure out that i am writing about her? it's possible.
i think, and i hope, that she already understands this to some degree. i want to be able to drop the vague, vague references and the attempts at symbolism, i want to sit and talk and drink hot tea, and i want to know what's really going on inside of you.
but i don't deserve that, because i have led you on and to nothing. i don't deserve because i will change my mind again. i am sorry, and i hope that i am not wrong to say all of this.