I’m sitting at my desk right now, listening to the CD M made me and I feel like crying. We talked about this last night, again – about how our college experiences were so different. About how mine was probably a little more typical – a lot of hooking up, partying, blue bleeh blah. He was sort of "married" the whole time.

And when I listen to this music, this music that we share, this music that makes us scream, oh my god you just don’t know how much I love this song! You. Just. Don’t. Know! I want to crawl under my desk, wrap my arms around my knees and cry.

I’m a puppy for your love.
You’re only the best I ever had.
Did you lose yourself somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star?
Crazy how you crush me with the things you do. I do for you anything too.
I know a place where I can go when I’m alone.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been good enough. . . I don’t know if I’ve been really loved.
It’s bittersweet. More sweet than bitter. Bitter than sweet. Surrender.

Cry for the youthfulness I can’t ever have back. Cry for a freedom that is so unlike any other. Cry for a future that was split wide open, arms spread apart, fingertips touching both sides of the universe. Cry for the friendships - their intensity, passion and headyness. Cry for the moments where I can still smell the leaves, still see the red brick, still feel the collegiate air on my back. Still see you standing across the slantwalk waiting for me so we can walk home together.

I have to apologize for my apparent inability to make sense this morning. This is the first time I’ve ever really censored myself. There are things I want to say, want to write, but I can’t. It sucks. And the fact that I’m black-barring things before I type them is making me feel out of sorts. But I have to get these thoughts down.

So I’ll just write them to myself; work them out on this new document screen. Tell my story, read it back, edit it, wonder what it all means.

I wouldn’t mind sharing it with you. You, way out there, you who doesn’t really know me, has never seen my face, never heard my voice, never seen me smile or cry. But you? The one who knows all my secrets? I can’t let you read it. I can’t let you know.

But I relish this heartache I feel sometimes. I want to drink it in, lap it up, suck it dry. Because it’s a feeling, it’s a soaring, sinking feeling I get desperate for some days. These are the feelings that make you feel alive.

Sophomore year Kimi and I had a mantra: But at least it let’s me know I’m alive.

It was from the Edwin McCain song, Alive, that basically talked about that very thing: life sucks sometimes but at least you know you’re really living in those moments.

When the boys didn’t return our calls or we failed a test or another date party came and went without a favor, we’d just smile at each other, raise the shot glass full of bourbon and say it. At least it let’s me know I’m alive.

And I’m alive this morning. Alive and on the edge of my soul. Waiting for that great moment. The corner I’m surely about to turn. The one that rounds onto the street I’ll walk the rest of my life.