My inside feels funny each time I see your name in my inbox. Just to have something else other than all that noise in my head telling me that you actually exist, somewhat justifies all that noise in my head.
I know you're out there, sleeping, or studying, or talking on the phone (even though not to me, although that would reinforce the realness of your being), whatever it is that you might be doing right now while I'm typing this. It drives me insanely jealous not knowing. I want to know every single thing you do after every single thing you did. I don't know how those minute details can be interesting. In normal situations, with other, normal people, I really could've cared less.
But you're a paranormal to me. I can't explain you. Your knack to perpetually amuse me with your everyday things, amuses me even more. Mulder and Scully wouldn't give you up if they come across the case of you. I know I won't.
And I thrive on those minute details. Your most mundane movements would be the highlight of my day.
But I haven't seen you or talked to you for so long. I'm no longer privy to your details. I never was. Someone else is. It drives me nuts knowing that.
What would be your weakness, I wonder? What would be your Achilles' heel? What would be the one thing that would turn things around? What would be the chink in your armour?
But you're perfect. Achilles wasn't.
And I haven't seen you or talked to you for so long.
My collection of your shadows are slowly running back into the air. I had to leave the container untightened for my own sanity. But I need something to reassure me you're out there. Hence the name in the inbox. That's all I have of you now.
The canister is empty. And it wants to fill its newly-acquired void with something else. Tears, perhaps, but I've ran out of those a few months ago. How about some brown sugar? It goes swell with coffee.
I've had too much coffee this week. My throat is sore. The lozenges didn't work as well as it did the first time. I don't know if I can blame it on the coffee but from our past conversations you told me my coffee-drinking frequency wouldn't do me much good. I want you to tell me what's good and bad for me. But I don't want you to tell me you're bad for me.
Maybe I should take up smoking. At least those damn cigarettes being bad for me makes some sense.
Sense. Wish I have some of those right now. They'd be pretty useful three years back, too.
Lisa Loeb's Falling