My boyfriend is joining the army...and while being without him is not something I'm looking forward to, I can see that this is something that he's actually put a lot of thought into. It will help him reach his goals. I love him. He needs this. He's doing it, working towards something. Who am I to tell him no?
I couldn't be more proud, or more in love, or more sure of anyone's ability to make it.
This was written in my philosophy course when I couldn't bring myself to care about Descartes theories. It's my way of telling him he's right, I'm wrong, I love him, and I'm sorry for being so difficult.
I. How many sentences in a day do we begin with that word...with that letter.
It never ends, our contemplation of our own state. I (there it is again) don't even know what I (#2) am talking about. I (#3) am bored here, with nothing that can hold my interest. At least nothing around me can. I (#4) am captivated elsewhere.
Out of this classroom. straight out the window and down three floors where I (#5) begin to run.
Run: about twenty miles until I (#6) reach him as he is just backing out of his parking place. My hands crash down on the trunk of his car.
He stops. Gets out. Looks at me.
"I love you. I need you. I want you. I think this is wrong. I don't want to lose you. I don't understand. I can't deal with it. I...hope you'll stay." (#7-#14) It all comes out in a rush of tears and a concert of soft slaps on his chest as he holds me.
Then I (#15) just whimper out a "why?"
None of his sentences that answer my question begin with an "I." His reasoning is sound, sure, and selfless.
I (#16) drop my head onto the front of his jacket again.
"I need to do this, Carrie." His one small "I" is a whisper kneading its way through my mass of hair down into my ear.
All my arguements crumble. I (#17) cannot refuse the one thing he is aking of me when he has already given me so much. There is no compromise for these "I"s, I (#18) know, ans so his win, because he has less to begin with.
He drives me back to htis building built of bricks with windows that may as well contain bars.
He holds me. Presses kisses to my forehead. Cheeks. Lips.
"I love you." His second.
"I love you." My nineteenth.
I (#20) come back inside and sit back down, and then picture this scene going quite differently.