Me and Derpy hanging out. Talkin bout feelings. Talkin bout love. Talkin bout movin too fast. Talkin bout movin too slow. Talkin bout the future. Talkin bout the past. Talkin bout expectations. Talkin bout now.

Said some things I that I’m unsure if I regret or not and I learned a few things.

I keep a journal. A real one. Its some Barnes and Noble off the shelf thing. No lock, just a magnetic clasp with a nice embroidery pattern on the cover. I got it as a gift in high school sometime.

There are only a few pages filled out in this journal.

One is a silly dedication, this journal is for me, not for anyone else, sorry. Page one is a lie except for the part that says hi to a very dear friend of mine. That parts true.

The second page is an entry listing all the sorts of things the journal would contain. It then proceeded to contain none of those things, but stuff thats way more important.

The third page has a few laws in it. My laws. Laws I can’t, or won’t let myself break. Sometimes I bend one, just a little. I’m only human.

The fourth page is ideal laws. There are a bunch more of these. My handwriting is so abysmal, but I can still read them. These ones I break, from time to time even though arguably they are far more important. These are the laws I sometimes repeat like mantras or prayers to the person I want to be. I read a few of them aloud today.

The fifth and final page is special. Its where I keep the things you said to me. No no, not when we first met, but when we first parted. I found them all about my apartment, when I was looking the heart that you stole from me.

I’d fallen victim to sappy stuff like this before. I still had a bandage left by a love letter from someone else, its professions of adulation and affection cutting like teeth when they changed from words to lies.

I was afraid of the notes, of what they could do to me if they turned on me, but I had such a wonderful time I decided to keep them there in the journal whenever I found one.

When I moved, the journal was put in the bottom of a box. Remember, the things at the bottom of the box are the first to be packed, the most important. Today I had to turn my home upside down to find it again. When I touched the soft fake leather between old art books and school’s honors, it was like finding a piece of myself that was locked away.

I pulled it out, and I made my short journey through the first four pages. Familiar thoughts and ideas stirring in my head. I remember when and why I wrote each thing. Then I turn to what I came for, your page.

I’m ready for anything. I’m ready for anger, I’m ready for peace, I’m ready for fond memories, for uncomfortable feelings I don’t know how to describe, or who its safe to share them with.

I read a few of the slips… I touch them. I feel a tremor. I read a few more. And a few more… each one so precious how dare I think even for a second that some of them might be false.

I read the slip of paper that makes me cry. Its not the one that says “I love you” and its not the one that says “I miss you”. Its the one that tells me to smile. I always smile when I read that one, and then the tears just come out.

We had hit a rock in smooth waters. Had some awkwardness, some things I’m not sure how to explain. Tough feelings, but important ones.

To me, real love isn’t fancy words and poetry. It isn’t about smooth moves, a pretty face, and a romantic gesture.

Real love to me is bearing your soul. Its about telling someone the truth about who you are, what you feel, and when you are at your most utterly miserable and vulnerable, and when you can’t take another second of exposure to the most wretched parts of you, the jealous parts, the hateful and uncaring parts, the parts that are disgusting, repulsive, cruel and unloving that you wish you could be rid of forever…

When they see that part of you, and they tell you to smile because they don’t want you to be sad.

When you tell me to smile because you don’t want me to be so sad when you’re not here.

Then it doesn’t matter what my expectations are. It doesn’t matter that you live in one place and I live in another. It doesn’t matter if I have to wait a year to be with you, or 5 years.

It doesn’t matter if we have rough spots because as long as you’re still there holding my hand, looking at my neurotic scared and unbelieving soul and telling me to smile and don’t be sad and that we’ll be going to wherever we are going together, than I’ll wait.

I’ll wait for when you to lean on me and rest your head on my shoulder and give me a little scratch on the back and I’ll close my eyes and feel more content than I’ve ever felt in my life.

I’ll wait here with Derpy and with my journal, smiling and crying at the same time because I love you, and I can barely wait till I see you again.