In the beginning of the last month of two thousand and eight I wrote...
And so it ends where it began. With December, with the Verve, with text messages cryptically and neither wanting to appear too eager. I don't want to dream away my life with my hometown and stealing my brother's hats, with friends on Queen Street and with writing words down but not knowing what they mean. I don't think I ever really wanted this. Falling into the last three years was so easy, far too easy, to do. In it, and in it and in it some more, I of course grew to love you and even convince myself that I wanted to. But I didn't want to, and don't still.
I don't know what's going to happen to my life now that I've done what I've done. But I'll live with it either way.
Perhaps here I will write about relationships, perhaps I will write about clothing and perhaps I will write about the fact that I enjoy going to work on Wednesdays more than any other day of the week because the Second Cup downstairs brews that delicious ambrosia-like stuff more commonly known as Caramelo. I don't know, and I refuse to try to figure it out. All I can ascertain in this very moment is that I will write about anything and everything that crosses and has crossed my mind since the moment I wrote the words above in a little dollar store notebook on the GO train, and I might write it here sometimes. It makes me feel better to do so. I don't know why.