September 26th is almost over. It’s been 41 days since I was told that I was “exceptionally intuitive”—I deciphered a situation (specifically, why #CWP hadn’t sent me a second reply) based on a single vague clue, offered what was probably a half-decent response to said situation, and received a validating (though also mellowing) response.

Intuitive, huh. And caring!

I hope she’s doing alright: I don’t know. Radio silence. I was promised a reply “as soon as possible;” while I don’t doubt it will arrive someday, I am wondering if there’s some kind of statute of limitations on follow-ups. And if so, has it passed?

Huh. (So I’m an Idealist, tell me something new!) My intuition tells me that I should do my best to put it all behind me—the same thing I’ve been trying to do for three years. I’m not particularly clinging to anything; I have no particular hopes.

In between my various school duties and copious amounts of catatonic lazing, I’ve been watching some movies. Way too many final scenes on the platforms of train stations. Way too many clever lines here and there, sophistry penned with that tinge of ‘real dialogue’ that makes us want to interpret it all as wisdom. Way too much whimsy: from Touko’s “sakka ni nare!” to Jesse’s “gravity is god,” I find myself immersed in pleasant daydreams.

Fantasies are like options. We consider them and we want more.

An honest desire of mine right now: someone to be my Touko, someone to tell me to be a writer. Honeymoon Salad says it’s alright not to follow your dreams if you can love, and while I’m not sure I can get behind that fully I am sure that my author isn’t tossing me any bones. Which will it be? Do I get to be a writer, or do I get to love you?

My passion is a fish.