It's been so long since I've seen the ocean.
In a six and a half hour phone call, I promised something that was delivered today. I was a little nervous, because the something I promised was personal, and something that I very much wanted to give.
The box arrived today, and I realized I was more nervous about my handwriting than the other things in the box. I was terribly nervous over the letter, and the CD's with my marks on them. Almost to the point that it wouldn't have mattered, nothing would have mattered unless my writing was looked at with something.
The something is hard to place. I don't know what kind of emotion you're supposed to have towards something that personal. I know it's important. It's important because it says so many things about you regardless of the words you write.
I feel vulnerable. Like I've let him look into something, and I'm back to the minutes it took for promises to be extracted. Back to the seconds when it felt safe.
Maybe the something is acceptance. Maybe I feel like if someone can read my writing, they'll be able to understand me. If the shapes appeal, if it looks familiar, if it's something you could keep tucked away in your wallet.
And it's silly, but I'm proud of my hand writing. All of the C's I got in school for my penmanship mean nothing when people ask you to make signs because of the way you form letters.
I just want to hear it. I want to hear the "I loved it" over and over and over again, until it's like my favorite song, and I know all the words, and all of the "oohs" and "aahs", and every spot where if you're singing really loudly you can take a breath.
Breathe.
. . .Good Night.