Much as I crave the suffering that I draw out of our interactions, I desire that, the chance to help, even more. Sometimes I'm actually afraid to let it show; it seems at times that the painlust is all there is, all you want, and I'm afraid to show you any other side to my own desires. Afraid kindness will drive you away. Afraid to loose you.

Does it make me weak, this confession? Perhaps. If so, it's a weakness I can't avoid. I worry about you, worry that I am making things worse, not better. I worry that the things I do to help, only hurt. I worry that the things I do in love, you see only as cruelty.

I worry that in trying to save you, trying to heal you, trying to savor what I can of your misery in the process... that I am breaking you.

And more than that. I worry because at times... at times, the thought of breaking you IS pleasing. The cruelty I show... sometimes, it IS all there is to me.

There are no rational words, no simple set of phrases, to explain this. You know the trouble with words as well, trying so hard to explain yourself, to describe some feeling or some reaction, knowing that the text you spout in your hurried attempt to answer falls short of what you want or need to say.

So many bits of knowledge we share - so many ways in which we are similar, our cravings and our needs, our actions and reactions, even the depression we both slide into at a moment's notice - so much of our lives are a perfect match. And yet we are so far apart, so distant. Still there are these doubts, these fears. I know you feel them too; your own words damn you.

I still read it, yes. Eager for some clue, some revelation, praying for some new inspiration... that, yes.

And I read it as well because (you know this already, do you not?) I savor the misery poured into every line. I feed on your suffering, and you know it. Does it ever frighten you? Do you worry that you won't be enough, that you won't be able to take enough pain, to show enough terror, to cry the tears I need to see? Do you worry that you might, in some way, fail me completely enough to break ME?

It feels like a guilty secret, this reading. Checking every few days, almost hesitantly, as if I am stepping into some inviolate sanctuary of your Self, my presence, my regard, profaning a trust. It is foolish, this feeling - you know I read, you know that the words you set into print there are often looked at, often seen. In some small measure you want them to be read; you would not write them, else.

And still I read... and worry... and wonder if your own dreams are as troubled as mine.