polar

There's a lot of...something...swirling about me. A lot of mess. Mess inside, and mess outside; it's good and bad and neither.

I don't like a mess, contrary to what my bedroom floor would say if it spoke. I like things in their place, for the most part. And yet, somehow, the pins and needles all seem to fly at me at once, like I'm some sort of magnet--drawn towards my skin, on all sides of my body, and nothing is budging unless another magnet walks by.

The financial and academic problems aside, I don't know a whole lot about where this is going, if it is going anywhere. Last time, it took a turn for the awkward and we silently agreed to never speak of it. I get this: you obviously like spending time with me. I feel the same. I feel pulled towards your house, your room, you...constantly. But, within, I can't tell if it's just the magnetism or if it's something a little more complicated than that. And, without, I can't tell what you want. You rode your bike out to meet me tonight. The Arrested Development nights are becoming more frequent. But why am I so hesitant to ask about segueing into something more?

Something silly, and something not. You haven't kissed me, and we haven't actually addressed this out loud.

Have you ever felt like doodling something in the middle of your notes and you just scribble away until the graphite mess you made looks like a tangled ball of wire? Rattling around my ribcage, where it can, right now, is that scribbled mess. And I have only myself to blame for any of this, but I'd like to blame you a little, too.

Credit where credit is due.