I can't sleep, and like it was a while ago, you're the cause; a pleasant reminder of what we had, albeit an inconvenient time to be awake at 2 in the morning thinking about it, due to finals week. It's possible that the growing anticipation of meeting up again is cause for remembrance but I feel in order to sleep soundly tonight I must be honest about how I am feeling.

Guilt, I think they call it.

I am upset at the way things ended up this quarter- and it's most likely because of me. When leaving for summer vacation I probably had certain expectations upon returning, though I would, and did say otherwise. Often during my trip across Europe I found creativity and inspiration in how I remembered you; I wrote some of my best poetry and short stories while doing so. The minimal English interaction I had only fueled my ambition to soon talk to you again back in the States.

Composed as I may have been during our first meeting back I thought I handled it rather well. Took us a while though, didn't it? My concern was that somehow you thought I was different after you telling me and getting a text after. Different, how? Good or bad? I thought I was quite the same. Famous for never revealing your emotions as openly as I did I thought I did the right thing in not pushing things or getting into a fierce conversation at the very outset- a mistake I suppose on my part. We both would have been better off knowing.

Time went on and we both were busy, rarely able to find time to meet up, even though I contended I'd meet you anywhere/anytime if only for a little while, I just assumed you were too busy to even think about moving forward. I started to shut down that part of my brain that leads to insecurities and slowly try and purge everything out and move on. That's where I made my biggest mistake. I gave up. And by the next time I saw you I was different and it was obvious things weren't the same; we both knew it. I messed up real bad and I hope you can forgive me. Not even a friendship worth bragging about was recognizable from the lack of communication and I dare say we've even fallen close to becoming "acquaintances" status to my minds utter detest.

I don't want that to be how you remember me, that last lunch, because I truly enjoyed every bit of time spent with you. There were times when I could have pulled my hair out not knowing how you felt but I should have not let it get to me and taken things easy. I don't know what it'll be like the next time we run into each other. I imagine, given the circumstances you'll see the Eric you got to know at the very beginning of it all, and that's exciting. I think back and those were great moments. Admittedly, I am different since we met last, and am different from the time before that- but I think in a good way, it's the only way I could have come to this conclusion. In all accounts I believe I've become more mature, though I'm incapable of ever fully growing up, call it Peter Pan's Syndrome.

I remember walking the beach at sunset, dining at fine establishments, and more. You'll always have a place in my heart regardless. So thank you for those memories in hopes of more opportunities to create new ones.

I didn't want to dirty another page in my notebook with pen so I forged ahead and wrote a blog instead.

I caught my last thought before I went to sleep and tried to let it go.

Then, I awoke this morning and there it was again, as if haunting me for an unforeseeable reason. So I shut my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, to escape, which happened pretty successfully; however, I remember during my slumber I shrieked, but I couldn't control it, I was having a nightmare of sorts; I can just vaguely pick out pieces that were familiar.

Of course, the thought was about "you," and no I'm not talking about you, "you" is more of an abstraction, unless the "you" I'm referring to is indeed reading this, then indeed the "you" really is you; but I would have no way of knowing if "you" will ever read this and will truly understand that it's about you, because honestly how many you's are there in this world? Without naming names.

"You" inspire me to write shitty poetry because there aren't enough moments to pull from, just flashes of scenes from a poorly written movie that nobody wants to see, all sewn together to create a mosaic of film strips lined alongside each other that with a flick of a switch can spark, burn to a crisp, and enable me to forget. I can't help but look to it for creative inspiration while it lasts.

Tonight, I'll go to bed again knowing what awaits, the thought. I'll try to shut off that part of my brain that conjures up demons so I may sleep in peace, but I know I can't; because all "you" have been to me is a dream, once vivid, slowly decaying, waiting for that fateful spark.

How many times do you think you've been referred to in someone else's poems/diary/journal? You could be immortalized somewhere without knowing it.

I've written hundreds of poems and entries over my lifetime. Spanned years of notebooks, filed in my cupboard across from my bed back home and the ones piled against my wall in my dorm room.

I had never thought about being referred to as an abstract "he" or "his," or "you." Have you?