The moon upon the ocean
Is swept around in motion
But without ever knowing
The reason for its flowing
In motion on the ocean
The moon still keeps on moving
The waves still keep on waving
And I still keep on going"

There is so much nothing to say. My daily life that delights me but is such a bore to any other reader. Brenna told me I speak in poetry. Pretty riddles. I�ll try not to today. It�s a hard thing to break. If I am honest, let me mask it behind vague poetic clich�s about the moon and girls underwater.

Rosy came and went. And I feel like our spark flickered into existence and then died again as she left. I spent the entire afternoon with her, and there are still things I feel like I haven�t heard. Or won�t ever have the opportunity to hear. I love and hate snail mail. Because everything I send off is fleeting and only slivers of what I am feeling. When the response comes back to me, my worries are old and dead, and I have only new ones to deposit.

I realized my greatest fear is obsession. I so don�t want to make anyone put out over my inadequacies.

I want to figure people out. Badly. I want to rekindle the friendships I may have killed with my exile and weirdness. You know who you are, I imagine. I want to share myself with more people who can reciprocate their emotions back to me. Emili and I beside the fire Sunday night; my face pink with the flames so close.

My feelings are so abruptly honest, I can�t type them, and for fear I�ll blush. Ask if you like. Competition between two. No communication between another two.

Fuck patience. Love is fickle. Happiness is fickle. That�s not to say I haven�t found one of the two. Watching it come and go without my control is irritating. Watching other�s confirming emotions, and then again as they become disbanded.

My own view, serrated edges and wild hopes. I want. I want. I want. Let it come as it may.