you sit on the keyboard and promise yourself you’re going to write if it kills you. but you make the mistake of acknowledging the presence of someone you know may truly exist in your world. and before long, you’re the one being twisted and turned. is it by sheer design that fate makes you unable to function when presented with one (surprisingly pleasant) blow after another? admittedly, you would rather really focus on the distraction, especially when it’s plated in a somewhat palatable image of XY chromosomes. but still. still. what of it? distractions are what i may end up writing about but i wouldn’t want to hold off on having fun just because i have something i “have” to do. and writing? it’s really about living, isn’t it? what is there to write about if i haven’t lived? (as i suspect i haven’t.)
again, plenty of excuses, so you know why i may die being a great potential. if only, if only. but i want to fall in love. i want so badly to fall in love. and i’m crazy like that.