There are a few choice names I could call you, but I won’t. I dropped my whole life for you to prove a point and meanwhile you were proving a different point. An exceptionally frustrating point, I’d like to point out. Still, I can accept it. Mainly because you leave me no choice and partly because you are worth it.
What’s so great about going slowly? Listening to the clock is not an ideal way to spend the time. You could get hit by a bus at any second. Of course, I was in more danger for a longer period of time.
This compartmentalizing is killing me. I just want to talk to you. I see you everywhere and in everyone. I hate how much it hurts me. I get that it is a prison of my own doing (or is it your doing or both?), but damn. I hate crying. It makes me feel so weak. The word lachrymose has come to mind more times recently than I care to admit. And yet here I am admitting it.
I will wait. I’m too stubborn not to wait. I just hate waiting. So much. Everything feels so urgent because I don’t even know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t think waiting any longer will make me any less impatient. Just so you know. It is making me more impatient if anything. It seems like no matter how far I run or how fast I run I am always coming back to the same place. I have no choice but to keep going. The incessant pace of the clock sees to that. I can’t bring myself to blame you for it, but it is your choice. That does not change.
Meanwhile, I will be over here doing impulsive things and waiting impatiently because this is apparently the only way I do things. I just wish I did not have to do them without you. Perhaps I will run so far and so fast that there is no way for you to get to me. It seems you have done so, so is turnabout not fair play? Well, it might be fair, but I cannot bring myself to do it.