quarry

i used to think i write for myself. that i was writing a novel, a story, memoirs of sorts. lately, however, i have realized that each time i write, i write to someone. and so far, it's been for the same person. one. for obvious reasons, i have moped and whined over the effects of naive, unreciprocated feelings, and i read back over them and feel like a child for writing these things. yet writing is my happy medium; if i can't produce a note of music, i produce words. i don't care if anyone ever reads them, really--it's an outlet, and it keeps me relatively balanced (although aforementioned previous entries would beg to differ).

today is the first time i've ever myself been openly pursued, in the name of love or lust or whatever kids call it these days. at first, naiveity convinced me to enjoy the attention, to bask in the glow of wont, of actually being wanted, for the first time (as far as i'm aware) in my life.

now it scares me a little. it scared me from the beginning, but there was that thrill that goes with that kind of fright one feels when they are head over heels running in this life. now, i'm not sure if that thrill is there. it might've been replaced with a little bit of wariness, anxiety, even fear.

now, i am being chased. but i never chased to begin with.

-d