Sometimes when I see Tats online, I think "is he looking at my name, wondering if he should message me too?" I imagine this must happen, sometimes. Because we're all human and we all think of things. I like to imagine we're two proud wolves, or some type of predatory animal. Foxes, wolves, snakes. We are aware of one another, we both have a desire to connect, but we're too proud to actually do it. To make that move.
I often let my pride slip first.
Either that or he doesn't think these things. Which would also be reasonable and acceptable, but far less poetic.
I want to write stories about him. I want to write a novel about this chapter of my life, more than any other chapter. I hate the other chapters, in a way, because they all end with I Want To Marry You and then the inevitable Heartbreak. This one is exciting. This one seems like an adventure. If I had more words stored in my brain, ones that could link together to form sentences, structures that people would find fascinating, I would do it. I would write a story based on my experience. But I would need more experiences. I would want to be a journalist, covering him, solely the story of Tats.
Maybe I will. Maybe I should. Should I start here? The more pageviews this post has, the more I'll be tempted.
Can you tell I'm bored? I've read two books today, alone.