Inbox

I woke up to my phone ringing - incoming text message. It said 'Moi en amour!". I of course knew who it was from, what it referred to, and even what it feels like to send such a message. I was jubilant for my friend... And, soon after, I found myself wishing I was in the same predicament, thus realizing that if I felt that need, I was not in the same predicament. Then thoughts of when I was last in love flooded me; I played along, re-enacting how great it felt.

[It does not help that, by chance, last night I cleaned out my text messages, revisiting and carefully keeping my textual love story intact]

So, this morning, I sent an email telling .exe (that is how I shall call him, I like the comparision to an executable file) that I was still in love with him. Probably a mistake, but probably matters can't really get worse. Status quo.

A general nostalgia for that feeling, that being in love has come over me... I want to be twitterpated? Yes, that was the word j e n n so aptly re-hashed... But, have I myself turned into an .exe file, going along with the pre-programmed motions? And I know what being in love is, but is it necessarily a pre-requisite for love?

This type of questioning requires more coffee, and a return to my readings...