When I wind up making your name a verb; or when your name becomes something I blurt out at random times but more frequently when I am upset, angry, surprised or when I'm not focused on a specific task... then you have probably hurt me deeply at some point in my life. I have probably scarred you too. It makes sense, then, that I call us quits, wish you well and hope to Santy Claws I never see you again. It means that deep down, I probably still miss you in that peculiar manner of mine... the manner that involves symptoms from shaking, fever, lassitude, auditory and olfactory hallucinations to physical pain.
It's unbecoming of me to return to this topic-- that last poem was your final gift to me; that last letter, my final gift to you. It's just that there are some things I just don't get over. That you are among them is indicative of how special you are.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Recurring Worries
The problem we're facing is that we're operating, in essence, like Culture Crash Comics in the early 2000's. The product is great, the people are nice, but if something doesn't happen soon, the story will end the same way it always ends whenever I believe in something bigger than myself: egg-sucking disappointment. This isn't the first time I signed up to serve in Camelot. I've seen it fall twice, and I would like to see this one turn in a profit (just a little, but more than "just enough") while it changes the world.
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