you
I love you.
I'm not altogether sure who you are, but I think that's okay since I wasn't ever really quite sure who any of the others were, either.
Perhaps you aren't even really a 'you' at all. Maybe you're just the part of me that needs to say I love you to someone. (How arbitrary, she sighs.)
Maybe that's all it's ever been. Ever was. (Ever will be?) Bloody ego tripping, love is. Or was. (Or will be?)
Does this mean that I never loved you, the only real person that I've ever loved? (Please note that the previous sentence does not say, "...the only person that I've ever really loved." That difference is intentional and in my mind, outrageously important.) Now I'm really confused.
Fuck you, then, whoever you are. Or were. Or will be. I'm too tired to deal with your bullshit anymore.
I love you, I don't love you, I want to love you, I can't love you, I will love you, whatever. Make up your fucking mind. And don't come crawling back to me when you've changed it, either. Commit to something. Commit to nothing. Just commit, already.
What's my commitment? I'm not sure. I don't even exist. However, the bitterness on my tongue that has passed through my fingertips by proxy suggests that if Mohammad can't go to the mountain (also known if the girl can't get to the retreat), the mountain must travel to Mohammad. Time for a 28 day in-house retreat, filled with voluminous amounts of meditation in action since all my normal life activities must continue. The retreat starts Saturday. Where to start? Meek and right speech. What the hell have I gotten myself into now? A simple stray 'I love you' and now I've rambled on like a crazy person and designed myself a retreat? Well, whatever. Must be divine intervention—straight from within.
I love you, too.