When I write for you I feel invincible, but that only lasts as long as it takes to finish.  Then comes the apprehension of my finger hovering over the button to click send.

Should I?
Shouldn’t I?

I take a deep breath and hold.

Now comes the waiting.  My invincibility is gone and I’m surrounded by weakness and inadequacy.  I’m terrible.  I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said I would do that for you.  I didn’t edit it so please take that into account.  The words I wrote for you felt so strong when they leaped from my fingers to the screen and now they are not even close to good enough for you.

Never once did you return a negative word.  I could easily say you were just being nice but then you’d ask for more.  Again and again.  You’d be excited to read what I wrote for you and would edge me on to continue.  I’d considered quitting my job and spending hours a day holed up in a room with a small window for light as I wrote for you.  You drove me into madness and I spilled that insanity onto the screen.  I handed it back to you with my heart and you kissed it every time.

I love you.  It’s the only way I could write like that for anyone, by being in love with them.

I would write for you until the end of time.  I would make your character iconic.  The sexual dynamo that would be the envy of all.  The girl would become synonymous with sexy, smart and silent.  You’d be a pop culture phenomenon.
I want to write tomes dedicated to you.  Books of poetry with your name scrawled across the front.  Series of literature focused on you.  The Dulcinea of my life.  I will sally forth in search of adventure to claim it in your name.

Everything I do is for you because of the way you make me feel while I’m doing it.  I hope some day I can give that feeling to you.  It’s such an incredible high I want you to be able to experience it.

Days In A New Notebook

How fun would it be to be able to take all of your favorite writing you’ve ever typed and burn the ink into paper pages, all bound?
Each with a date written bold in the corner.  The thoughts and impressions that met you all displayed in the words that ran from your fingers, now from the end of a pen, pencil or quill.
I was thinking how wonderfully enigmatic it would be to use a journal in a fun way to write pieces out of order.  Somewhat like a “choose your own adventure” style of writing where the pages are not in order.
On one page you open up and it’s March 24th, 2005.
The next page is July 3rd, 2012.
The page after that is December 29th, 1999.

I’m sure I’m not the first to think of this out of order insanity.  The flow of time caught off guard and ripped through the pages like a leaf through the autumn wind.  Being able to time jump with the flip of a wrist.  Reading thoughts of an occupied emotion in different states of development.  Thinking in current time what a fool yet envious of every curve and slope against each letter as they bled onto the page.

38 years ago would be too far.  Maybe 25 would have been a nice place to start.  Wishing won’t make it so but starting now and at 76 who knows.  The only way we live through the past is by memories and what better way to keep a memory then writing down those emotions.  A picture being worth a thousand words never stood much for me.  It could never compete with a couple of hundred chosen in the right mood.

I’ve got two notebooks at home.  Hard bound and unwritten in for probably a decade, maybe slightly less.  I should give those pages a voice.