I said last night that all I knew was how to give up. I meant that I don't know how to fight back. I've always prided myself on being able to rise to the occasion, to claim righteousness, and move towards victory (that wasn't supposed to sound like a war call), but when I look back at relationships, all I see is my proclivity to drop my weapons and play dead.

I lost a lot of people with that move, and I'm still in mourning for most.

I do remember once, late at night (or was it early in the morning), where I made a promise to fight against my tendencies of giving up, and I made that promise to you. Last night, I couldn't fathom how I could vainly claim that I would fight - when I knew how strongly my weaknesses can be. The weakness being my instinct to assume that I'm not worthy, he's not worthy, the world isn't worthy for love or any kind of happiness - and don't I work better depressed? Then I convince myself of the logic of the statements made, and take steps to remedy the 'problem'. So, I guess I do fight, but I fight towards failure, towards being alone, towards emptiness. I am still unsure as to why I feel I prefer these things, maybe because after awhile you get used to the feeling of a wet blanket over your shoulders, and it starts to mold itself over your skin, like it was a second one growing, and you just become accustomed to being wet, shivering and hopeful.

When I saw how upset I made you, I wanted to cast off that blanket and bury it somewhere deep. I suddenly realized how immature and selfish my customs are, how much they hurt other people, and I was reminded of how each and every time I had allowed those customs to play out so I would return to my sorry state, I only became sorrier later and would reminisce towards the 'better days' when I had something wonderful, but allowed myself to lose it.

I want to make a new promise to you. I want to say it in person, so it won't be written here. I'll just have you know that it includes the old promise, but revised.

I hope you don't mind that I wrote this, here. It started off as a diatribe against my pitiable traditions, but instead turned into a letter. However, this still feels more personal than an e-mail.

And I love you.