May 2008, It's You, not Me.

My unease is something that has been consuming me these last few weeks. It began long before I met you. But, it wasn't until I met you that light was cast into those shadows buried in the corner of both my mind and in my heart. And then, the unease grew.

There is so much about you that I don't know. I feel that we are still strangers, as if we just met. Every encounter with you is like the first time. And, I just keep wondering, when does it get easier? Isn't it supposed to be that with each subsequent visit, I learn something new about you? Yes, and there is that...the way you wash your fork before putting it back into the cooking pan, the way you are an absolute control freak when it comes to your music-always the right song for the right moment, to capture the right feelings (which drives me crazy because it's so orchestrated, and that's NOT how LIFE IS).

But why isn't it getting easier for me? I feel so guarded, so scared.

You're a writer, an artist, and I don't want to change anything about you. I'm not in the business of changing people. But I can't help that I feel this way and it's all because you're a writer. The words that appear next to "writer" in my thesaurus read, "spy, danger, lies."

So far, you've been able to notice things about me that I hoped would go unnoticed. You've even noticed things about me that I have long since taken for granted. And the worst part of it is that you write about them after putting them into a petri dish under a microscope, dissecting me, exposing me in ways that are wrong, and untrue. If they go unwritten, they're scribbled somewhere in your mental notebook, filed away for a later time.

Despite the fact that you're so forthcoming about certain things, others you're actually not forthcoming about at all.

You make me want to start over. I don't want to start over. Every scar I wear, I wear with pride. You make me want to begin again when all I want is to continue.

In e-mails everything is so short, brief, just enough to get a point across. But the point that is made is like a black and white coloring book. No details are explored or shared. Nothing sacred is shared, just words, text on a page. There's always more that I mean to tell you, but I constantly feel this indirect pressure to string a bunch of beautiful words together because I'm afraid you won't understand me otherwise. Writers.

Life is strange that way isn't it? A person doesn't get to choose who they meet or when. It's always random it seems. I feel like a ball in a pinball machine, stuck, ricocheting off one thing only to get hit by something else so unexpectedly. How ever did our paths cross? Remind me if you remember, because I've already forgotten.