तत् त्वम् असि

I wrote about 600 words tonight about the unknown and asking you, my friends who read this, to afford me all these little words despite how they must bore you, because this is how I have chosen to communicate: writing to him under through writing to you. In these writings, I asked you to take another little piece of my heart, knowing full well who i intend those pieces for. I even addressed him as directly as I could.

I started writing listening to this song, and now, over an hour later, I will finish writing and publish almost nothing of what I wrote because I think now I understand a little better what this song was trying to tell me. At first it caught my attention and I thought it was magic. Now, I hear them singing, "It doesn't matter what I do." and I understand that it is not magic at all.

I am strangely at peace with this, now, at 2:13 am. 

I have saved all my little words for myself. Later I will read them and I will feel again a fraction of this passion that drives me to flagellate myself by reading and re-reading his little words every day, several times a day. Again, I wonder what will hurt more, reading my name in his journal or not reading it? Not reading it because I have ceased to read or because he has ceased to write? What hurts more the known or the unknown? Why do I prefer the feeling of not-hurting when surely great and terrible heartbreak is as desirable a feeling as any other?