J, I miss you. I miss you a lot.
On your blog you sometimes confess your feelings to this S, that C. And you hope they will feel the same way too.
How endearing.
J.
Your loneliness hurts me.
Why can't I fill up your emptiness?
You are the drive that ties me to this page, although you don't know.
I wonder when should I let you know?
I always think the people I like deserve to know that I like them. They deserve the warm feelings and self-esteem brought about by affection from somebody else. They deserve it.
But I've always spoken from the position of someone who holds onto her secret feelings for as long as she feels like. Until it gets too big and she has to say it out to let it die and leave her alone.
Emotional, melancholic, sentimental, that's my blog, that's your blog, too.
Yet who are we in real life? I'm rational, intellectual, even pragmatic, strong and sometimes playful.
You're nice, artistic, melancholic, popular and philosophical.
We......do we match? Is that chemistry I've felt nothing more than one of my endless illusions?
Reading your blog is like reading my diary. That melancholy, that pondering, that emotional fling.
Why, J?
Why can't I reach you?
Why is there a glass door, a barrier that keeps me here, right here, but my right hand tries to reach out, my left hand tries to grope at nothingness, that cold smooth glass surface under which my feelings will be cremated.
Why, J?
Help? Help me reach you. Help me let this feeling out to you, this is purely for you, J!
But, should I tell you in the first place? Should I not?
On your blog you sometimes confess your feelings to this S, that C. And you hope they will feel the same way too.
How endearing.
J.
Your loneliness hurts me.
Why can't I fill up your emptiness?
You are the drive that ties me to this page, although you don't know.
I wonder when should I let you know?
I always think the people I like deserve to know that I like them. They deserve the warm feelings and self-esteem brought about by affection from somebody else. They deserve it.
But I've always spoken from the position of someone who holds onto her secret feelings for as long as she feels like. Until it gets too big and she has to say it out to let it die and leave her alone.
Emotional, melancholic, sentimental, that's my blog, that's your blog, too.
Yet who are we in real life? I'm rational, intellectual, even pragmatic, strong and sometimes playful.
You're nice, artistic, melancholic, popular and philosophical.
We......do we match? Is that chemistry I've felt nothing more than one of my endless illusions?
Reading your blog is like reading my diary. That melancholy, that pondering, that emotional fling.
Why, J?
Why can't I reach you?
Why is there a glass door, a barrier that keeps me here, right here, but my right hand tries to reach out, my left hand tries to grope at nothingness, that cold smooth glass surface under which my feelings will be cremated.
Why, J?
Help? Help me reach you. Help me let this feeling out to you, this is purely for you, J!
But, should I tell you in the first place? Should I not?
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