200611

A friend wrote an essay about the weather and the INALity it induces. She called it What I Talk About When I Talk About Love is Nothing.

After reading it, I looked back on the latter half of the past year (how I yearned to have someone to snuggle up to on rainy days) and the first half of the present year. I almost gave up on this. Or would you be more appropriate?

I almost gave up on you.

But I didn't. Or, to be more precise, I couldn't.

What I talk about when I talk about love, these days, is not nothing.

What I talk about when I talk about love is you.

this is how i know

If I can do away with my selfishness, I can be happy. I blame it on the stars, but seriously, what the hell do stars have to do with me? I'm just trying to find an excuse, a justification. Something to back up this self-indulgence.

Love is not selfish.

But I am.

I, however, am trying to be as unselfish as I could for fear of chasing you away. And this is how I know. This is why I am so certain I will not have anyone else.

I'm sorry I sometimes lose it. But I am trying. I'm trying really hard. To understand. To accept. To adapt. I sometimes forget all this though, particularly in the event of an emotional fit. I've always had a hard time controlling my emotions. I am rarely ever logical, which is why I do the things I do and say the things I say.

What we currently are—something caught in the middle of being lovers and being friends—is something I would have never tolerated if this didn't matter as much as it does. This is how I know. I figured I'm willing to compromise things I never imagined I would. Especially not for you, because, before all this, you were just a little less than a friend, someone whom I thought would make a good cousin-in-law. A thing of the past.

I'm sorry I demand things I shouldn't. I keep forgetting I am in no position to ask for anything and should instead find satisfaction in what I have.

Because, really, right now, you, more than anything, make me happy.