Sometimes, I write these entries in my head over several days, but when it comes to getting them on the screen, I can’t. Not because I don’t feel like it, but because the words come out with such difficulty.
So I sit in my room with the lights off, hoping for something to give me courage, something to move my mute fingers.
Instead, I procrastinate. I buy myself time by playing a game on my iPhone, or surfing the net. It’s like I’m stalling, I’m building up for a moment that’s no more important than any other, like a nervous schoolboy trying to ask his crush to the prom; picking up the phone, dialing a number, and hanging up again.
Maybe if I bury it after a bunch of inconsequential thoughts — like how it’s hard for me to write about something — then people will get bored and won’t bother reading the rest. I try to convince myself that everything will be forgotten much quicker than it took for me to write this. Nothing works, when all I’m trying to say is that every time I listen to Letter Read by Rachael Yamagata, I imagine she’s listening to the same thing at the same time.
So sometimes, you just have to say fuck it and write it anyway, even if you’re afraid and you can’t breathe, and put it out of your head that you’re left vulnerable, that anyone could read it, that people know something that you probably shouldn’t share, that you’re still thinking about her when everyone is telling you not to, because none of it matters when it’s the truth, and telling the truth is what makes you you.