i guess i could try to understand why we’re doing this. why i’m doing this. but i’m afraid that it wouldn’t make any sense. that it would be just so many pieces of words thrown together. and that you’d insist on making something out of all that, well, nothing. so i’ll stop here. but i can’t seem to. call it irony, or maybe it’s just a “side effect” of being an “English major,” whatever it is: to try and take what is given and make it the best. not to regret, but to make the most of one’s mistakes. it’s like flipping open any book to any page and picking a sentence. for instance: “And for the cash that’s God’s sole solid in this world!” here’s where you went wrong: you thought you could take that sentence and from it you could learne everything in the world. it’s like that old philsophy, that if you could just understand everything about something you would know everything about everything. but that’s not how things are necessarily. sometimes what happened is a mistake. a mistake . and you should regret it. yeah, there’s kind of a balance there, and maybe, for right now, i’m too far on one side. time changes things. i’m really not this cynical underneath. in the day-time, that is.

i would¬†write you a poem. but all i can think of is an apple. a picture of a red apple in a black-and-white world. and taking a bite of that apple. of being black-and-white in a Pleasantville world, and . . . choosing – color, passion, knowledge, love, lust, anger, – all in an apple. but you wouldn’t know what i’m talking about.

because i’m not really talking about anything. no specifics, just nameless fragments – isn’t that how Xanga works? to keep us at a distance, while we pretend that really we’re telling all. and you can pretend that you know me – that you’re my closest confidante. because for a second – now – you are.
or you could be realistic about it. and just say “i’m bored.”
so which is true? do i write this because i’ve “simply” stored up too many words, and they have to go somewhere? are you reading between the lines to hear my call to you: listen to me, confidante, and do not turn away. it doesn’t matter how well it’s written (i would hardly dare to suggest that this is well-written at all) or how you strain to hear: there’s nothing there. even if i hinted at confiding, i wouldn’t because i can’t. i’m too busy running.

does any of this strike true? do you feel the same, somewhere, deep within? i am really interested to know. when you’re young, “they” spend so much time trying to instill a sense of individuality in you. you’re “unique” or – well, yeah. that’s what “they” say. and then you find out in intro-to-psych, really, everyone’s exactly the same. and everyone’s suffering under the delusion that they’re “unique” – but we’re not. so i want to know. do you feel lonely – like this? do you want to tell me something, but you haven’t said it? why haven’t you said it? is it not tactful? is it not the right time? maybe there are certain things that should go unsaid (a hard lesson to learn – i used to think there was nothing that should go unread. but now i’ve learned my lesson).
if you’ve read to here, i would truly like to hear your opinion. it doesn’t have to be anything “deep” or grandiose. i just want to hear. to hear you.

i’ve missed you.