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16.11.2017

i might be an open book. that’s a fair assessment. but not everyone reads between those lines, the handwriting petering out with an ever-dying pen. not everyone sees the notes at the bottom of the page, the cross-outs and the things that never made it to the finished copy. some people don’t even read at all.

“it’s hard.” i want to shout that sometimes at people that i feel a spark just speaking to, who ad nauseaum let chances for something amazing fly by. do you not see? “it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard!” – to make that genuine connection, not everyone is an exception but then, there shouldn’t be a rule. and i empathize, i understand, the want for love but the wariness of the affection – is it true? will it last? will it simply suffocate with memories of past sparks, flames that engulf, or will it withstand and make a showering firework, or will it go off in your hands? what can you do in this age when it’s easy to forget someone behind a veil? a pixel screen is the fail-safe for these things, you can break it open but no one is there. touch the static electricity. the optics are clear, and if not you can shade to simplicity so easily. we are harmless but still you fail to see the contrivances you’ve put in the middle, red tape of shades darker than i can passably cut underneath.

what do you have to lose in sharing yourself fully? i am not some monster lurking beneath your bed. i have not come with promises to fill a head with nonsense, but there’s something. does that mean nothing, now? i need a place to put my hands. the keyboard does the trick but it sticks like my voice when you won’t even talk, even try for a thing that stands a tiny chance of hurting. pain, huh, new concept, will it ruin you? straining to hear the voice of another above the work work work you have to do. i know, we’re all busy, but do you want to look back in a year and have regrets? i do not want to play a game. i prefer good conversation, and i will always know where i stand. i am still an open book, and you may have a story to tell. pick up the pen and write in me, and you may be surprised that you find it is as familiar and welcome as the one inside your head. i am the journal you never knew you could keep and you can consider yourself well read.

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