To reflect, to contemplate oneself, is an arduous task. One is wont for exaggerations of self, deprecating or flattering. So instead of going on about myself, I will go to a no less arduous, but all the more exciting subject, to describe who I am. Who I have become.

If today be the third of January, as I suspect it to be, in the year of 2009, then there are thirteen days left, before a very important anniversary comes along. Thirteen days which I have to prepare and write and writhe in the feeling of desperation. This will be day thirteen on the countdown, then.

She came to me, as redundantly as I care to become, on June 20th, 2008. Needless to say, I have not been at all the same beast I was before then. I had not ever felt such elation, but she forced me to delve into such a state.

It took some time for the courage to manifest itself. Perhaps on the 17th of July, I told her, something so simple that it seems juvenile now, after everything has been said. I told her I liked her. That I had a crush on her. And in the earliest hours of the next day, she whispered nervous reciprocation, perhaps because of her poor luck in these ventures before. I would not become someone she would remember as a disappointment. I will not and cannot. And for that, both to her feelings, and to assuage my own nervousness, I gave her my heart. It is not mine, no man can keep theirs and say they are happy. I gave mine to her, and I said those three words, so simple, so universal, that no other vocalization could properly replace it in meaning.

"I love you."

And despite all the happiness she gave me, she gave me tears and sorrow, as every man must deal with to become whole.

Love is not happiness. Love is the undying affection of one to another, good or bad. My father oft said that dogs were loyal to a fault, if they were struck, they would return to their masters, merely disappointed in themselves for whatever they had done to make their keepers angry. In a way, I am a dog. Perhaps exceedingly loyal and overtly stubborn, the moment she would have been rid of me, a day in late August, just dozens of hours away from my birthday, I remained. And I wept. And I grew bitter and mean, but I did not leave her side. I begged for the why of what she had done, and she told me. And at that point, I found the target of my sorrows, but I still could not bear to enjoy myself with her as I did previous.

Were it not for her roleplaying forum that mended my feelings and allowed me to continue covertly, to find that neither of us truly wanted what had just begun to die, then perhaps I would not be writing this. She, I feel, was more inclined to give up at that point, in the shadow of fear. I would not surrender to a fate so foolish. And so I pressed. And the pressure forced the admittance of fears and love that had been repressed and hidden for those days. I told her that I would not leave her be. And I repeated those words, which had become a coda of reassurance. Ah, how flexible they are.

"I love you."

She set aside her fears, and I brought my passions. Secrets and interests of mine became hers, and perhaps I introduced her to a world stranger than most would want to know, but this world was mine. For myself, pleasures of the flesh are merely expressions of the self in the heart. So I am perverse, but she holds my heart, and will not let go. And despite my flawed self, I will not let go. I am capable of that, at least.

I am loyal. For her, I am loyal.

Happy birthday, my love.