Time, Subjective, Love

I questioned once, awhile ago, what if I never wrote again. In a strange twist of fate, I have not been able to write since then. I have gone through a string of being completely uninspired. I think that this may be due to an apathetic viewpoint on the world. On one hand, the love of my life sits beside me. She lies there, sleeping peacefully, dreaming. Dreaming of a world far better than the one she's been placed in. Probably one filled with kittens. I digress. I haven't felt the drive to write, and I still don't. This is merely an outlet. I must see the words, so I can go back to them later and have a physical manifestation to draw from. To remember the emotion.  Or lack thereof. 

Time escapes everyone, quickly. Man tries to contain it, to measure it in the tiny catacomb of his pocket-watch. Time is infinite, but finite. A paradox, in a sense. Time has never ceased to stop accept for individuals, in a certain perspective. What I mean is, tomorrow a man in Boston may die. Time stopped, for him. He no longer feels. No longer sees, touches, tastes, cries. His grieving widow, however, will deal with the torture and anguish that is time, and it will not cease to move. But really, there's simply no such thing. It's a concept, created by man so as to set deadlines, plan events, mark occasions, etc. There is no such thing as time, and yet it's what controls the very universe we live in. I myself strain against time to write this. I need sleep. I have things to do, at certain times, tomorrow. I won't have time to do all I want though. 

I mentioned before that on one hand I had the love of my life. Well, unlike certain amputees, I have another hand. On that hand lies fear. Fear of not finishing anything. Fear of not being able to convey the feelings I feel for her, to where she'll know. She needs to know. To really know. I feel far too old. I fear that these ideas I have are not actually as big and grand as they appear in my head, and that in fact everybody that is near me in age (another concept of time) has these thoughts, wonders these same things. I will most likely convince myself otherwise, so as to make myself feel more unique. This hand holds everything that I wish I could get rid of, but it's been surgically attached, so the only way is to sacrifice a limb. Something I'm not keen on doing. Perhaps, perhaps the fear is the key. The key to better allowing myself to achieve the things I want. I have absolutely no idea what I want in life. The only thing that is certain to me is that I want you, Brittany.

 In every single scenario of my life, it ends with you by my side now. It's a surreal feeling, to know someone like I know you. It's a frightening feeling that someone knows me like you know me. I worry that these things, these passages won't mean anything to you. I know that sometimes I come off like I think you don't understand things, but I'm starting to learn that you express things differently. I express everything through words, imagery, emotions. On paper, though. Because I'm not very good at actually saying how I feel. I am much more convincing on paper. You express things differently. I like figuring out how you express things. You have a huge heart. I feel that mine is two sizes, too small. You make me feel alive. Which sounds so hopelessly romantic, especially at my age, but to hell with that. There shouldn't be anyone that is allowed to say that there is any such thing as being too young to love. How do you know you love someone? I can tell you how I know, but I can't tell  you how you know. Love is subjective to whatever person is talking about it. That alone is why no one can put an age limit on love. I know I love, because I know there is not one person I would prefer to have a conversation with than you, Brittany. That fact alone is what makes you different from everybody else. That in the end, I can write about you the longest, and talk about you the longest, and talk to you the longest. I find more stuff to tell you every day, and I doubt that will ever change. I know it won't ever change. I do love you, Snowflake. 

For those of you reading this, I don't really plan on ending this well. I'm not fond of endings, so I haven't exactly mastered the art of creating them. So, instead, you are stuck with this. This was a mess put together at two o'clock in the morning. See, time came in handy there, because now you can recognize what state the author is in. The fact that he began referring to himself in the third person in the last passage might also be an indication, but that's another story. I said this was a mess, yet that does not mean it was not beautiful.