Midnight

This is stupid. To hope that one typed word minus the endearments can convey the multitude of uncertainty, insecurity and emotion being held back.

I don’t know what it is I seem to be expecting. Why I’m restless, like a caged lioness pacing, pacing, pacing. Why do I want to shake something, anything, out of you? Why do I feel like putting you through a food processor in order to extract the essence of you, because maybe then I’ll be satiated?

Why against my better judgment (like putting this in a private diary), knowing who reads this, I still go ahead?

I feel …unsettled.

A friend said something that struck a chord with me yesterday. She said we needed time to find our tempo, a synchronized rhythm for two. And maybe she’s right, because I feel far from that now.