nicolerb
I do wish I knew what to do with my life. I know what I want, I do know that, but not what I /should/ do. It's scary, to want so much that goes against what you've always believed to be true. How can I love you so, when I've sworn things like this never work?
I'm scared I was right.
Bucket list. Of all the things I want to do before I die, that roadtrip is foremost in my mind. Your smiling face as we sail down the highway is the best thing I can imagine. I think of it before I sleep. We said Highway to Hell was a must, right?
Stopping. A period of nothingness as punishment. A detention of the body is bearable, but of the mind? I can't. I hate that feeling. But mostly, honestly, I hate when I do it to myself. I deserve better than me sometimes.
Explosions. I realize that your effects on me can be classified as purely chemical reactions in my brain. But I don't want to. That takes the magic away. All of my cynical analysis melts away at the thought that you could be reduced to just a chemical receptor and a hormone. That's not right. That's not you.
You're magic.
I despair when it refuses to work. It's crazy, how such a little thing can get me so worked up. I pace, I rant, all because I want to see if you've contacted me in any way. It seems so pathetic putting it that way.
They shouldn't call it the pond. It seems like a much bigger distance than that.
It's like a train, everything that leads me back to you. A steady rhythm pounding out my feelings for you until my heart's memorized them. A track that I'm happy to travel. All roads go to Rome, and all thoughts lead to you.
I don't mind.
You're beautiful.
Motion. What about motion? Minds can be in motion as well as bodies. A mind can race faster than any Olympian. A mile a minute, with facts and synonyms and thoughts. Of him, most likely, but who's keeping track of that?
Oh.
Me.