For almost two days now I've been carrying around a piece of regular notebook paper in my pocket.  It's folded multiple times and is starting to fray because it's rubbed up against my pants.  I've come this close to crumpling it *makes small gesture with hand*.  Why? Or better yet, why DON'T I?

Answer?  It's got words on it.  I wrote them. Some how I think the words are important.  They are important to me even though they are nothing but a desperate ramble of what was on my heart two nights ago.

Will I ever say the words out loud? Let me put it this way, the reason I wrote them was because I couldn't find the courage and strength to say them aloud in the first place. I want to though, say them out loud that is, very much.

The paper is sitting on my nightstand, and will be in my pocket all week long.  Unless of course, I absent mindedly leave it at home.  Then I will have to say the words for myself, and not what's on that piece of paper.