to be without you
2:10 a.m.

Charles,

Man. Saying your name still makes my voice tremble.

When will it stop? When will the loneliness stop? When will I stop missing you?

The loneliness is a little bit like when your hands start feeling really tired. You keep stretching your fingers and rubbing your palms together to make the tiredness go away, but they keep staying sore for a little while longer. And you wish you could just somehow force the pain out of your hands, or maybe even just temporarily disconnect your hands until the throbbing of exhaustion stops. But you can't disconnect your hands, just like I can't get rid of what I feel in my heart, man.

In a way, I'm glad you don't read this diary, and I'm glad you don't read my diary either. Yet I keep writing in this one. Why? Why do I continue to pursue this dumb fantasy that you might someday read this letter, or the others I've written to you on this diary? You of all people know the failure I've had with chasing dreams. I chased you, didn't I?

Life is moving on quite happily, I might add. School is going great. That's not just a line. Some parts of school are a struggle right now but I think I'm actually enjoying the struggle. And I've got friends --- boy, do I have friends! So many to hang out with! I guess all those nights of being sequestered and hermetized in my room have paid off with the reward of deep appreciation of the company of my friends. And I'll even admit that I'm still on meds. I don't care how insulting it is for you to ask me. I don't care about any of that stuff anymore, well, most of it. I just want you back, goddamit! I'm tired of finding creative ways to write about how hard it is to be without you. I'm tired of playing Mister Motivated Author. I lost you as a friend because I wanted you as a boyfriend, and that loss has flooded a reservoir of motivated writing. I keep writing and writing about this and that and this and that again, and at the core of it all is you. That shouldn't be the case but it is. What have others told you about me? Why does it matter? I can't help how I feel. I can't help how I just want to put my arms around you and ask "why?" No anger, no rage or accusation --- just a simple question in the midst of a gentle reunion.

It hurts so much. Almost two and a half years later, it still hurts.

Charles...

Joe

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