Every time I was asked to write an about me, it turns into an about my feelings for him.
It’s weird. The way he makes me feel is like waiting for an aftershock of a disastrous earthquake. It doesn’t seem to end. One minute I thought that I was okay, that I was free to take a stroll outside my comfort zone with my tangible thoughts. But a second later I’m quivering with fear, anxiousness, and excitement; I don’t know why I can be so excited about something that makes my blood boil. Maybe that’s what I like. Maybe, my fears make me feel alive. That’s what he does to me– he wakes up every cell in my body with a single touch. One look and I’m shattering to pieces. See, this whole paragraph turned into something else. I can’t get a hold of my feelings, I always write about him. It’s impossibly wonderful to believe that I know him too well. I can still continue writing about him, you know. But I’m afraid a book or two can’t still be enough. I still know myself more than I know him, though. It’s just that I never fail to notice the little things he does that capture my interest.
So much for an about me.
(image by menpale)