It's like a hole, but bigger

Odd really, isn't it.
I'm not quite sure what to phrase this or how to call it.
Explaining has never been my thing, especially in this department.
Don't you remember?
"The abstractness could work if it was a bit more understandable."
Isn't that a contradiction? I mean, I'm not trying to be rude, but I just call things for what they are.
Like me being normal.
That's called an oxymoron. (It means that it just doesn't fit well with itself. Like normal behavior and thoughts don't fit well with me.)
How did I get here?

Sometimes I think a typewriter and a cup of tea would fit in a bit better. Other times I picture an ink-filled pen and a journal of magnificent proportions. But in the end it's always girl on computer, typing her thoughts into a square of plastic.

I wonder if I will ever accomplish this. I'm terrified to try. In fact, I would much rather not, but not trying is what finally pushed my over the edge into trying again. I guess I finally decided that I would rather try and fail than pretend that it never belonged to me at all.

The type looks so gorgeous from here, and I can see the proud expression on your face when you read it for the first time.

The heart-wrenching part is that you'll never read it, and I'll never try.