i think i'm being far too personal on this thing. apparently i genuinely enjoy spilling my soul to the internet. maybe it's because I feel to pretentious writing poetry or something to express myself, for some reason. so be it. i'll jsut be straight. the following is copied out of my "journal" (it's like the first thing i've ever written in it). uh, yeah. i was fairly emotional...


I don't know what it was about it that made me start crying. I don't know why I did it in the first place; it's probably the most immoral thing I've ever done, or ever could bring myself to do.
It was her side that I read, and chronologically I went backwards. I read the aftermath first, which was saddening in itself. They had both lost hope, completely. Right before I had read about how in love he was with her. How he was such a dreamer about the future, their future. And now, nothing, so they thought. I went back, to the entry right when it happened. I discovered all the feelings she was experiencing, all the frustrations towards him, and my defenses immediately went up for him. Quiet and shy, sure, but why did it come to this?
And why was I so upset and emotional? Was it because I had just seen and spoken to him? Did this add to a wild "what if" imagining? He was there, had just been in the room, and now the words told me otherwise, told me it was over. In the world of the words he was gone, and she was gone. No, I was gone. I would have never been there. But more than that selfish reason - what would have happened to them if it had never been resolved? My heart seems to know that they would have never found happiness without each other. I can't imagine it, or bear to think about it.
It is simply a twisted version of the feeling any child has when their parents fight. The fear is not just fear of divorce, the fear of wondering what's going to happen to you; it goes much deeper. It is being frightened of the uncertainty of love. How could something like this happen to two people who seem to be the epitome of love? What does that mean, what can love mean then, if this is it?
It was this fear, as well as remorse for their states, that led me to tears (which have only recently subsided since scribbling this down). I sat there curled on the floor, wiping my nsoe sloppily with my hand, reading her words on her pages, the words filled with their own anger and sorrow.
I was crying as I turned the page. And on the following page - three splotches in the ink. Her own tears, over twenty years ago, had fallen on the same page as mine were about to. I raised my hand to my eyelashes, and then lowered the wet fingertip to the page. The blue ink spread itself a bit around the place where I had touched it. My own dried tear is now added to the book. I don't know, does it belong there? [seriously, if anyone is reading this, please consider and answer].
At this moment, I want to be with them. I wish they could pick me up again. Hell, even figuratively. I don't want to go to sleep because next thing I know it will be the morning, and instead I'll have to face more of me arguing with them, more of me wallowing in my sullen angst, more of me wanting to show them I love them but being unable to.
Christ, I've started again. My tissue supply is rapidly being depleted. I heard a noise (in my imagination, most likely). I'm going downstairs.



Um, I talk funny.