Confession:

You’re the only one I’ve truly written about. Aside from the ocean, the moon, and the wind- I write of you.

Even before, when I first started to really write, I wrote of my current crushes’ but somewhere amongst the lines you would sneak in like a fox. I’ve tried to answer why it is that I write about you. Are you my muse? Are you the beginning of my story, the middle, or the end? Am I just an obsessive writer, making up things and feelings in something that doesn’t exist? Adding words, similes, and hyperboles to a blank sheet of paper to create something that others will enjoy to read? Or is it that I actually do like you and, in fact, always have? At the moment I can’t stop writing about you- quite frankly I wish to write of our future endeavours. Yes. You’ve got me thinking about our future adventures. They could write a book about these non-existent events that have yet to occur. Or I could write of them, seeing as how all I do is write about you.

--Fuck. I’m so screwed over.