It's never too late.

And I mean flushed in the non-bathroom sort of way

Weighing my pockets with stones of longing

Especially when those days are Saturday and Sunday.

They always come crawling back

I wasn't going to write any more about Theo, because I felt like I'd done that enough already, and especially if I have no particular aims except some vague concept of things working out, I figured I might perhaps make better use of my energy. And also, to a certain degree, as Saint Patrick said so well, "Today I am ashamed and terrified to expose my awkwardness, because, being inarticulate, I am unable to explain briefly what I mean, as my mind and sprit long and the inclination of my heart indicates."

It would seem that every time I happen to be walking home down that hallway at the same time as Joe, whether we are speaking or not, Theo comes from the opposite direction and no doubt sees scandal and hurries off to his many tasks, and I must retreat to my room to unending work and incessant, maddening reflection which is less productive than it is just staring mutely at whatever might be in front of me.

I contemplated writing him a Valentine. Feels weird not to send something to that one person who so clearly has hold of my heart whether he wants it or not. But I think perhaps my Valentine to him will be ignoring the day completely, giving him space which he probably needs, to get over what I've put him through in a normal healing process.

Despite what it may look like here, in the real world (I think) I've been quite detached for the last weeks. Only here must you suffer the histrionic drivel that comes spewing from my overactive romantic preoccupations.

And on that note, I'll end it. Here's to (somewhat balanced) indifference.

I won't be that girl at 1:02 a.m.
Listening to the Decemberists