82

I have 82 drafts. 82. That's a lot of uncertainty. 82 times I've started to write you something and backed off from publishing it.

I don't suppose it means anything in particular, other than that drafts are part of writing, even informal writing, and perhaps even more so with this weird diaric form.

Sometimes I write and then get this pang before I go to post it. I get this pang that tells me that something isn't right. Usually it's that I've written something I don't really feel comfortable sharing. Once in a while it's mere grumpiness, or feeling that I haven't been entertaining or witty enough. That I haven't told a story worth reading.

I'm sure there are plenty of stories that do get posted that aren't especially entertaining or witty, that are simply the tale of my day, or of my date, or of something ordinary that struck me. I guess a blog is really a collection of those little moments in time, pages and pages of fleeting impressions, and that's what good about the format.

And that's okay with me.

It's not so okay to see that I have 82 drafts. I'm not sure why. It seems like a lot. I have almost a quarter as many drafts as I do finished posts.

I remember writing here, at least a few times, that I'd been asked what I wanted out of a particular situation, and that I hadn't known the answer. It happens to me a lot, or at least it has in the last year. Not being able to articulate, even to myself, what it is that I'm looking for.

I can talk about it in broader terms - I want to feel free.

I want space. Lots and lots of space.

I want that particular delight of being intimate with someone who cares about me and whom I care about.

And I want space. Both of them, together.

At the moment, what I want is for a particular boy to come out and admit, to me and to our mutual acquaintances and friends, that he likes me, and that he is, in fact, seeing me.

I doubt I am going to get that last one. But in case anyone is asking, that's what I want.