I’ve written a lot about a lot of things in this journal. I write my most intimate dialogs, personal searching, learning, and even some of my suffering. In my essays, fiction and sometimes in my open conversations I’ll make mention of you. This began early in my journaling, and has carried on as a tradition throughout my writing.

I’ve found myself in a lot of curious situations as the result of this (maybe) bad habit of mine. From people writing me furiously creepy love letters because they were sure that they were the you in you, to being molested in person because there simply couldn’t be any possibility of you being you, or anyone else, no… it had to be them. I’ve even had people so angry with me over you that they simply stopped speaking with me. How could I say that about them?.

Yesterday in conversation with a good friend about what’s been going on with me lately (as I haven’t been altogether clear about it, I know) the subject came up again.

I want to clarify. My assumptions are that people:
a.) don’t read my FAQ.
b.) people would probably rather make assumptions or whatever than actually communicate with me (publicly, privately or otherwise) and are happy with whatever conclusions they come to without actually taking the time to know me.
c.) no one really reads my journal anyhow, based on comment feedback and participation we’re about 8 strong and dropping off steeply so I’m not really thinking of this place as anything other than a personal destination for the run off of my mind and my heart, perhaps an archive of things for future use, or disposal.

Now that I’ve minimized my own efforts, maybe I could get to the point? Ok, I’ll try… I wrote two entries in the last few months which I think speak to this very topic, and here they are: the first was I am holding a space and the second was Fireflies.

The former is a statement of love. A manifesto, a personal reflection which sums up all the writing I’ve done in the last few years about what love is, what it means to me. So in essence, as my internal voice speaks these words to me and my fingers rush to catch up, rather than an ideal of what I want to have, or meet, accomplish, or possess, this is a statement of something which I believe I must do. It is a place to be, something to admit, accept, and face.

The latter is a description of the effect love has upon me. The best effort on my part to describe love in action. fireflies in my life, all around me, sparkling, falling like silver and gold from the ceiling, landing all over everyone, and everything.

So the you in you is a dedication, devotion in action, an expression of this love.

Please don’t take it personally, don’t be offended, worried, or breathlessly uncertain that perhaps I might be talking about you. If I am describing your heart, your voice, your face, your eyes, your hands, your tears, your smile, or writing in the language of your heart, rest assured this only makes us all brothers and sisters. Unless we sit, face to face, and share something in the real world, then there is no possible way I could know you. I can only hope to reflect these overwhelming feelings, sounds, and images which never leave me alone.

If I love you, you know it. If I hate you, you know it. If I am indifferent toward you, then we have either never truly met, or I have overlooked you in some way. Whoever you are, I am glad you come to read, to feel and think, to laugh and ponder with me. Join me in conversation, share, offer whatever it is you have to give. But never be confused about the you in me, or how that relates to the you in you.