It has been almost two months since I've written here. Everytime I log in there's a faint buzzing in the back of my brain telling me that I must step up, must contribute, mustn't write nothing but logs. Yet here I am writing another one.
I guess you could call this place my personal confession box. I've never been religious (except sunday school when I was six years old), but this reminds me of those parts in a movie where the main character finds himself sitting in an unlit wooden church booth, with the glinting eyes and slow breathing of an older man sifting through the dark metal grated window. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned," the younger man says in a low, mumbling voice, and continues on to explain what those sins are.
Perhaps I haven't sinned, but there's that same feeling of sudden awareness that comes when you have the right audience. It's knowing you can't bullshit them because whatever honesty is there will leak out between the cracks of all the lies you try to tell.
So what is my confession today, you're wondering? I'm not entirely sure of that myself. Today I found myself literally jumping up and down with excitement after staff members of two separate food-based websites contacted me asking to link up with my food blog. I know some people may ridicule blogging, but this is my platform I'm working on here and the idea of it actually being good is freaking me out. In fact it is freaking me out so much that I'm procrastinating responding or doing anything about these opportunities. Am I really that good? What will happen if I become successful? Could my dreams really come true? Am I seriously on the right track for once in my life?
I don't know what to do so I pace across my apartment hardwood flooring until the phone rings with a strange number. It's him. We met up two weeks ago for the first time in years, and he's calling me again wanting to stop by. Some things never change. Other things do change. It's different now. We ask questions as we get to know each other in ways we never have before. He draws pictures of swords on my skin. He remembers the name of my hometown. Quick kisses for no reason, my cheek resting against his chin as we talk. I lay on my back looking up at him, his unsmiling face looking down on mine in such complete seriousness for so long it makes me feel nervous, not knowing what he's thinking.
He leaves afterwards. My body is still tingling. I wonder if I should have told him about my writing. I pace the floors again, wondering how badly my heart will be broken.