I long for mystery. To wonder whether or not one day I will feel the heat accompanied by a chill down my spine from the touch of a hand on my shoulder hand or cheek. The mystery of where my loved ones are, and their well being, without being able to find out within a matter of seconds. I long for the mystery of other people's thoughts and ideas. I long for getting to know someone by sharing a glance, and having the nerve to initiate conversation, and planning to meet again the next day for a nice walk or a cup of tea. I long for creaky wooden floors in a cold house, sitting in front of a fireplace with only the sound of the crackling wood and the silent snowflakes falling gracefully. Mystery of what eye contact may or may not mean. Mystery of not knowing what a friend is feeling in an uncomfortable situation, because you don't talk about it until after the fact. Mystery of talking, mystery of words. Mystery of how sincere another person is being. Do you mean what you say? Are you simply filling air? Relieving yourself of awkward silences? Don't humor me, I want honesty. I want cold, long silences if you can't find the words. I want to be able to stare or look away if I have to. I want to twist and turn at night, just dying to know what the rest of the world is thinking and feeling. I want to wonder, and put forth a real, genuine effort to find out. I want to be forced to reach out and not fall into a slump of slang and pictures on the television, one after another.. hours upon hours spent in the easiest nooks and crannies to fall into. Where is the mystery and why is no one fighting for it? Write me a letter, a poem, a song. Write me how you're feeling. In words, in a painting, in a childish drawing. Put it in ink, let it take a while to reach me. Don't spoil the surprise.

Am I defeating the purpose by posting this?