... I cannot really address this to anyone. I don't write very frequently anymore. It will probably be a very long time before you hear from me again. For some reason, I have lost my ability to verbalize my thoughts. Or maybe the threads of thought are so knotted that I cannot convey to myself, to you, what I really want to. But this is a simple confession. This is why I'm writing to you. Because, somebody needs to know. Secrets have a way of finding their way out of graves, and there are far too many that I know to be able to rest in peace.
He is a good friend. A better friend than lover. Sometimes I wish that's all we were. Because, now, we can never make the best of what we both have to offer. This does not make me sad. Well, maybe it does. But just because I am sad, does not mean I am not happy. For happiness is futile if we haven't seen grief, and it is not happiness if it is meaningless. Maybe this is why it saddens me so much. Because, sometimes, I feel it is meaningless.
He is a good friend. A better friend than lover. Sometimes I wish that's all we were. Because, now, we can never make the best of what we both have to offer. This does not make me sad. Well, maybe it does. But just because I am sad, does not mean I am not happy. For happiness is futile if we haven't seen grief, and it is not happiness if it is meaningless. Maybe this is why it saddens me so much. Because, sometimes, I feel it is meaningless.
In search of meaning and yours truly,
The Girl with Pink Glasses.
