<Omitted>
I didn’t last more than two days before I tried talking to you. The first day, the hardest day, I walked around in a haze. I turned my phone off, I stayed off computers, I shut down my brain. I was not there.
But then again I haven’t really been there. Hesitant to immerse myself in the thing we had, I held back. Months had gone by before we even said a word to each other. Months that seemed like forever. (Even writing this now seems so irrelevant, as if this thing is really worse than anything else in the world. Not to most people, not even a bit. It is to me though.)
I don’t even know why I’m writing. I don’t know.
<Omitted>
I’m trying to be myself again. My real self. The one I was when we first met. I made that video, that goofy, drunken ramble. I want to be funny again. I want to be outgoing, trusting, reliable, loving, happy, (insert adjective here, the ones that describe the way good people behave).
This is more of a complaint than actual creative writing. Whining, really. Like, who really wants to read that? Do you? I don’t know.
I’m running red lights in the middle of the night and I don’t even notice them. I’m spaced, detached, fixing to do something, but never really doing.
That one time at the museum, the one in San Diego, remember? We walked around for hours and tried to find a place to eat near the park. Traffic sucked. We went to the brewery after, the one in Escondido. It was beautiful out, beautiful and sunny. Afterwards I placed that sticker, the one from the museum that we got when we paid, on the inside flap of my wallet. I kept it there. I loved that day.
Sometimes, I dream of you. I wish it wasn’t a dream.
This must be the place.
If I’m not caring about one thing it’s what other people think about this.
<Omitted>
<Omitted>
<Omitted>
I’ll send this and then think of other things I wanted to say. Looking back, always looking back. But I guess this is it for now.
<Omitted>
