The Flat Level

Melancholy, in the dead of night, I return here.

How I missed you. Not the "you" of the imaginary audience. The you of Neue, my distant blog.

For the past few, I've been infected with the late-night feelings. Emotions that go past nostalgia into longing. As I put these thoughts down, I feel somehow returned to my true self, however words-for-the-sake-of-words a concept that is. Reflective, sad, and a bit circumspect, but with the addition of my newly acquired edge of viciousness.

I was reading Hourou Musuko. Reading it gives me that dread of standing tiptoed next to the abyss, elatedly waiting for the breeze that pushes me into tangled tumbling. (How florid I feel after being apart from you.) I don't write for myself anymore. What a shame. When I broke that girl's heart, I pulled up stakes and left the good ol' http://redhotsun.blogspot.com/ to escape. I gave someone the key to my diary and it blew up in my face. Whoops.

I want to be the me that wrote so much in this blog, that Jessica who poured her heart at crafting something here. The dramatic part of me wants to say that I don't know if she's there anymore, but I'm just too old to view my own struggles so romantically. It's hard not being a princess.