I’m still alive to be torn apart

Notebook thoughts:

I want to belong to a coterie of writers and artists. Something I miss but have never had is the company of other writers. I want someone to talk writing with. To bounce ideas off one another, share our work, support, and inspire one another.

Fears must be drained.

If you have to ask yourself: how do I seem enthusiastic without seeming desperate then you’re hanging out with the wrong person. You should be with someone who likes the way you think and short-circuits the same way you do when talking about a shared obsession.

I’m still alive to be torn apart.

It hurts either way, so what’s the difference?

Despite our estrangement, you still permeate my thoughts.

Is there a margin that exists between romantic love and friendship?