Well, what a place to put a journal, Kida. Brillant. On the internet. Oh well.
I suppose its not all that bad. Someplace to write while I'm at work. Someplace to write to that won't think. The letters I'm sending are so consticted, so carefully happy, that alot of the truth doesn't fit into them anymore. Too bad. Letters were such a good release for me. Like a cool bath at the end of a scorching hot day. But most of what I'm thinking about isn't happy anymore, and its all about him.
It seemed like such good idea at first. Okay, well, maybe not at first but after a while. I loved falling in love. I did. But who knew that all that stuff you hear about Marines is actually true? That they really do get sent off to war, that the world really does wear at them, turning them to old tired me with boy's faces. I feel as though I've signed up for something I was too young to fully understand. I kissed him, standing tiptoe, in the middle of a stream of people, and then let him go, let him flow off into that stream, through security, off into the airport. I haven't seen him since, but I know that the same man will never come back to me. I hate that. You make this deal with yourself when you fall in love that your going to believe that everything is going to be okay. And it really would if the world wouldn't get involved.
I feel tired, worn. Too much life in too little time. I shouldn't be complaining. Well, no wait- maybe I should. I lost alot in the past year, and I don't really have anyone to complain about it too. Have you ever noticed that sadness is like a cold? People avoid you for fear of catching it, and if they are so kind as to help you with it, they do so in a noble, self-sacrificing air. Maybe this would be a good place to complain. Maybe. If I complain here no one will ever know. No one will guess that Kida- thier strong, immoble friend, is secretly fuming over her edges, guiltily complaining on the internet. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.
Current mood: slightly lost.