i've got a new pen, it's a disposable fountain pen. i like the way it writes, it makes my handwriting look european. as if you would find it on thin airmail paper, yellowed by years, whispering things to a lover, or describing a beautiful trip to the sea.
this is a pen i could write beautiful things with. i think i am going to buy a journal and pretend i am in love. and i will write to my lover everything i am thinking and feeling, what my day looks like, feels like, how the november sun feels on my cheeks and eyelashes. trace my hand in the pages, draw pictures, paste photos, use my fingertips to paint, transcribe song lyrics, write morning haiku.
i long to feel deeply like that, but i hold myself back because i am scared. the idea of finding someone to love both makes me dreamy and happy and scares me to death. when i find someone who truly excites me, i am frightened, i pretend to myself that i am only playing, that i do not care for them, really.
i confuse myself, i am sad but cannot put my finger on why, i am happy but tell myself it will pass and try to ignore it.
i do not know how to tell someone i like that i desire them anymore. the fear is that they will reject me, of course, but the bigger fear is that they will not--until later. until after i have spent time daydreaming of them sweetly, falling into fits over their voice, they way they say my name, the contents of their mind. imagined them in the softest terms, in my arms, lips together, everything. depending on them, this terrifies me.
i am such a child.
i will convince myself it's the season that is making me this way.
but i will still start my journal. and perhaps, if given reason, i'll give it to someone...but i'll do it with my eyes closed, as if jumping into a pool on the first day of summer.
