It’s terrifying how much you could actually think of someone.
We didn’t have many memories. We barely see each other. We barely bond and do anything together. We barely talk or communicate. We hardly know anything about each other.
Funny how I stated that. It appears as if I’ve concluded we had feelings for each other, wondered why and listed reasons to contend it.
When in fact, it’s all me. It’s just mine. Because I don’t know what’s he thinking, I don’t know what I am to him. I don’t even know if I’m anything to him to begin with.
Every day passes and my feelings only get worse. Why did I think I could stop them? What made me think it could fade away?
When I scrolled Izumi’s blog, I was astounded by how maturely she views things. Although she might sound a little biased about everything, by the way she vents her thoughts, you could tell that she definitely had gone through something. And a lot. I mean the real thing. Legit. (No big deal actually. It’s just that… I’m not totally acquainted with that thing and I barely know anything)
How awesome would it be to actually have an experience. First-hand experience. And speak about it while philosophizing as to why this and that happen. Realizations would not be tentative then. What ifs are not directed to an unknown. There’s that thing. It breathes. It lived. But it died.
Unlike mine. So close to being an experience. Only it wasn’t—in a legitimate sense. I merely observe things from afar, theorize and conclude without firm bases. I apprehend and kill the thing before it even comes to life, and delude myself that it almost lived but was too weak to live on.
The things I said were irrelevant to each other.
I just wanted to write because I am sad.
I feel alone and dejected.
And I just miss him.
But it’s wrong.
I don’t have many memories of him. I barely see him. I barely bond with him. I barely do anything with him. I barely talk or communicate with him. I hardly know anything about him.