***


There's something about the movement, the speed, the wind against my face that makes the daydreams I have while running all the more magnificient. The pavement beneath my feet can be pavement anywhere, anywhere but here. I can almost imagine him running beside me; there's no destination, but that has never bothered me. My purpose in life has never been to find an ending anyway. I just want to do whatever the hell I want, dream whatever I wish to dream.

I realized one thing today.
That I really miss him. The feeling of well, infatuation and security. Is that a paradox?
I'm replacing him with so many other things, and its not as if I don't enjoy these people, these things I do, but people really need that sense of romance sometimes.

But WHAT exactly is it!
It's so fustrating.

I don't know about you, but when I think of an ideal romance, it's all mountains and white roses, champange and jazz. It's about sex on grass like the sort in Eden and vacations where you tug each other, running along the corridors of the L'oeuvre. But that's not reality is it?

I'm stuck here, sleeping with people that I like but don't particularly care for (and believe they reciprocate the feeling), and feeling nothing but one thing. Blandness. Is that a flavour?