writing a letter.

and it feels really strange. strange because it's something on paper, with less room to go back and edit, re-edit. without the freedom to change the things that i’m trying to say into things that sound better than what i meant to say in the first place.

edit, re-edit.

no, this is supposed to be a true reflection of feeling. a true reflection of reeling.

i do feel compelled to copywrite the shit out of everything. and i really shouldn't, should i. there's that thing called spontaneity, which is so very refreshing, so very romantic, so very very. and i don't think i've lost it, no. after all, i still make plenty of unmeasured decisions, say things without thinking, say things when i'm drinking.

but in the writing, oh the writing. it becomes difficult to just write without re-reading, and in re-reading, wincing, and in wincing, changing, and in changing, moving further away from you, because nearness is honesty and distance is just, well, far.

edit, re-edit.