I spent the past few hours in front of the keyboard typing a message about life and love and anger and disappointments, about misplaced affection and misunderstood emotions, about living and loving and being alive and being loved. It was time I should have spent at the office, time I had planned on being there, time ill-spent being controlled by the various pent-up emotions that suddenly surfaced from nowhere and stood in stark contrast dark and ugly against the fall-like sunshine and blue, blue skies. I wrote about obligations and liberties and confusion and aggression, about time spent together and time spent apart, about everything that was bothering me but I could never for whatever reason say until now. I'm not good with words. I'm not a good communicator. That much I know. I wrote and re-wrote, read and re-read, changing and editing and perfecting the prose that seemed to grow more and more foreign with each passing read. Each time I read them, the lines seemed angrier and angrier and angrier yet, and I grew more surprised at the things that lay written in front of me, so alien and all at once uncomfortably natural the way the words fit together. So then, not more than five minutes ago, after one last read of the multi-page dissertation, as I sat looking out the window at the brilliant summer light beginning to fade from the August skies, I pressed the delete key and banished everything I had written into the darkest regions of cyberspace.
Sometimes when you love someone, it's the only thing you can do.
