A very girly day watching the notebook and reading letterstocrushes.com, which I have been obsessed with for the past hour. One thing lead to another and I ended up writing my own. Aimed at no one in particular, odd for me, but generally at the world:
I wish someone would write about me, for a change. I seem to
be the one writing about everyone else, praising the details I love, cursing
the details I don’t. And it’s because I think about them. I think about
everyone in my life, no matter if I see them every day or once a year, or
haven’t seen them in a while. I think about their flaws. I think about their
gifts. I decide what I love and what I can’t stand. I have to do this, think
everything through. I have to know where I stand, or I’ll go crazy. But I wish
there was someone that did this too. I wish I knew they thought about me like I
think about them. I wish I was thought of. Most of the time, I think I’m
forgotten. There I go again, thinking about what other people think. It’s like
I have some uncontrollable need to please people, and at the same time defy
their expectations. I guess in some twisted way, I expect them to see what I’m
doing, to look at me and just get me. I want them to know me. But I don’t think
they do. I’m still waiting for them to catch up. One person. That’s all it will take. If one
person thought about me as much as I think about the world. If one person saw
what I am desperately trying to scream in the silence.
I’m here. I’m ready.
See me.
Help me defy this
world.
Hold my hand.
Please.
