What is this feeling, who reads this blog?

A blog, being public, can be read by anyone, anytime, and cannot function as a diary, nor can it function as a letter. Or perhaps it can. Are you my stalker? It cannot be directed, or perhaps it can. A blog is for one to put social commentary, life's commentary. If there's nothing to write about, you cannot simply talk about daily happenings, like how I just saw a squirrel nearly fall off a fence (how often does that happen?) But I am nearly convinced that there is one reader, and one reader only, of my blog. If that's true, the blog can both function as a letter and loses it's purpose. This was for my family to keep up with me when I'm in college, except that I'm not in college yet. That makes it a diary, I suppose.

Yesterday, Eric went to church with me for the first time, for the Chinese New Year dinner. It made me absurdly happy, and not just because he spent about 4 hours with my family, though that was certainly part of it. Pear said "church? wait for marriage." Marriage in a church?

People think I'm crazy, but they would think we were crazy if they knew. They would disapprove, but I can't stand their not knowing. Especially those to whom this would actually matter! Why are we skeptical? Although, I confess, if I were them, I would not believe either, or maybe I would. I have believed in others before, although something came between them in the end. It didn't damage my belief. I believe in true love.

I'm ranting again, aren't I? Do you enjoy reading this, mystery stalker? Do you enjoy reading this, Eric? This isn't good writing, Daddy. This is my stream of conciousness when I'm sick and home alone and cold and with a shadow of headache still. Why can't they understand? Because time is the test, and time, we do not have just yet. We have not evidence, much less proof. How much evidence do we need? Eric! A ring, a ring. That would be enough, but we don't have enough even for that. Scenes run through my mind all the time. Even the missing. Would they understand the missing? Missing a constant ache, like missing China years ago, the small things. Looking down and seeing bicycles and umbrellas, people on the streets, a gentle touch, rectangular glasses, a purple collared shirt. Accents, street peddlars, good food and family, kisses and hugs. Always missing, like nothing I've missed before. Nothing.

I'm depending on the laziness of the stalker to see the length of this and not even bother to start this post. And I'm depending on humanity to not know what I'm talking about. It's been too long.