YOu wonder where all the letters go that you write, and you never press send, or you just leave them in drafts, or they're saved in Word (fucking Word), and for years, you think no one reads them. The letters you do send, but no one responds, letters after letters and letters and letters and no one writes back, where is he? Does he get them? Does he just not like me? And then, months later, he writes back, two words, three words, barely what would be called a sentences, "sure. blah." Huh? Okay. Letters. "blah. blah. sure." More, more letters. Always the letters. Never do they make any sense.
I laugh now and call it the delusional process. LIke you can magically send out love into outer space, and the aliens catch it, and send it back down to earth.
It's the massive amount of words, and yet it is the senselessness of the process that is the genuine insanity. Not the people involved. They're probably all too sane. It's like building a machine which is faulty, and they having people who are skilled and capable try to run it--well, soon you'll have them hitting it and fucking it up more. They hate it. Why? It's fucked up. But man made it. Not God. All man made. You write the words, but they mean nothing but words, and words say nothing but I remember you--except on this fucked up planet, you don't know who remembers you or not. Hence, I love you--backwards.
Tomorrow, you'll know I loved you yesterday. And today, you're just pissed off at me.
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