September 16, 2008.
Sometimes I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
It’s just turned one minute past midnight.
You know what’s great about writing to you? You’re always around. You’ll never grow feet and run away or leave. As long as I keep a good head on my shoulders and not lose you, I’ll always have you to talk to. And you never interrupt.
You never judge. You just wait till I flip these pages again and let me judge myself.
The pages are starting to thin; I’ll need to buy a new one of you soon. I wish you weren’t so expensive. Old friend, we’ve been through so much, and past midnight it’s just both you and me again and the voices in my head.
I wish…but there is no use for wishing.
I wonder if I would care if someone ever read through these pages. I don’t think it would matter much, since most of what matters is in between the lines. At least that’s what we’ve been taught as how any good writer is supposed to write. Restraint, finesse, and subtlety. No bleeding hearts worn on the sleeve. Always discreet, never desperately revealing. One writes to hide and show at the same time.
…Old friend, the one who can tolerate me the most. What are you if not simply myself. You know, one day it’ll end, my having to constantly talk to myself.
One day I’ll have all thorns out of my side, and till then I’ll be left to wonder if it is possible to live a life simply as subtext read between the lines.
You incurable dork.