I want to make another story. But this isn't it. A story FOR me, ABOUT me. But I'm not there yet. Not even close. At this point, I'm willing to make any story... to start again... so this one will have to do. But this story's not mine. It's yours. Or at least my version of yours. Or my version of the stories of yours I don't have. Because I haven't asked. Not for such a long time.
I am sorry for that. For that silence. For the damage silence can do. What mine has likely done.I want to explain everything. I want to ask you everything.
And I want to talk with you about stories. Yours. The one's I don't yet have. I want to hear about Leanne. About Lydia and Rena. About your parents. About work. About how you're still able to listen to other people's stories, even after you've heard so many.
But there's one thing I don't get. I don't want you to tell your stories to me. Of course I want to hear them, but I don't want to be the one you're telling them to. I'd sooo much rather overhear you telling someone else. So that neither one of us would have to acknowledge that I was in the room at all.
And that makes me feel awful. Like a bad friend. Like there's something essential about friendship, about the world, about myself that I just don't get...
What scares me most... is that I think that thing is love.
(photo: "Life" by Santosh PhotographY (http://www.flickr.com/photos/santoshy/6222540914/))