Just a little bit of a something

Almost desperate, in some way, to have you communicate with me sometimes.
Sometimes, not always.
To the point where I read a non-conversational line that you've written, over and over and over again. Just reading it carefully, in detail, so that I won't miss out on even the little bit that you might have to say to me.
Even when there is nothing, really, that you have to say to me.

The awful thing about realization is that sometimes it comes when you aren't looking.
When you're just, poking around and prodding at things that you are otherwise generally very comfortable and contented with.
And when realization comes, you have to say it out so that you know it. But it gets painful sometimes, even if it's just a wee bit.


Generally speaking, I am fine.
I am loved, I am comfortable with where I am. I'm not just content, I am happy. Truly.
I have space, I have work, I have time.
And in that moment that I ended up in the middle of a dissection, I half wondered if I was actively looking for something to be discontented with.
But I wasn't, I am not.

In fact, if I take a couple of steps back, I'm still just as happy and comfortable.
It's just the little bits I suppose.
The acknowledgement of the possibility that, not everything he's said is true or real.
That maybe, quite likely, you are the disease rather than the antidote.
That you are, in actual fact, not that utterly enthralling special thing he tells you you are.
That really, you're just like the rest of them.

It's okay, I suppose. It's not like I can help it.
But it's a tad painful all the same.


There isn't any way to think this, let alone say it, without sounding petty and childish and self-absorbed. But it's something that's gnawed away bits of me over time.
And honestly, I'm sorry that I think these things and feel this way. Even though it's in rare moments or only right at the back of my mind and in a corner.

Because the thing is, I know I must mean something.

It's just that, for a lot of the time I used to feel like I had to keep trying and trying and trying.
And then I didn't anymore, and no one's making up for it.
At the same time we're all busy anyway and we all need our space.
So if you put all that together, toss in a few phonecalls, dinners and rants over drinks every other week or two, that's pretty much all there is to it.


It's me, and I'm annoyed at myself because two seconds before this it was all fine and dandy.
And yes I've known for ages that I'm not a choice favourite,
but then suddenly I'm just kind of wondering if this'll go on for ages, and if that would be okay.
Somedays I think it will be, but other days, I think I'll wake up to find that everything isn't where I've left it and then I'll just have to deal with it.


Or maybe I can dig a hole for myself, crawl in and count to a hundred.
You can't see me if I can't see you, right?