It's nearly four in the morning, but I feel I must write this one before it passes.

I wish I could talk to God. And by that, I mean I want him to answer me. Because there are questions I would like him to answer, with the most pressing one being why do I feel so alone?

I've been alone for a while. She was always veiled in ambiguity; her ambitions shrouded by a tentative spirit coupled with an unwillingness to communicate. I thought her interest in spiritual matters wonderful at first. But I realized I was the only one talking, and this blog itself was the paramount guise: it was the bridge by which she traversed into my beliefs a priori. That is to say, she cheated the system by knowing things without asking for them or experiencing them. Is not an organic uncovering of one's scruples more valid than words on a page?

I, of course, drank up the attention, but it had all the naiveté and depth of a five year-old's faith. It wore me quicker than I realized, I just didn't know it at the time. Soon enough, though, the uneven distribution of transparency rendered me vulnerable: to be known is to let your guard down. And with that fear, I, too, was unable to have disclosure at a level of any significance. How was breakfast? How was lunch? How was dinner...?

Even apart from the lopsided disclosure, I had reinvented my group of friends. Or rather, simply lost them. This was a consequence of simply a parting of ways and the following natural dissimilar stages in life. And that's where I am now. You see, dear Julia, I am alone.

So I am back to asking the same question. But again, I'm the only one talking and the frustration has been here a while.

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