Why is it we are so bent on wanting them to know who we are? They do not know us, and probably wouldn't give a penny to know what our favorite color is, what we put in our coffee, how many times we shower or.. if we have ever been in love. I am contstantly answering those things with a million questions that probably no one will ever read.. or remember for that fact, for my own satisfaction. Maybe I will learn more about myself if I see my own answers and analyze what I would think of me if I were not myself. Odd. It's not a fact of insecurity. It would be entirely curiosity. Some of us know ourselves, but do not understand why we are the way we are.. the way I am. Why do I feel that way about that boy sitting way over there on the redwood bench reading the daily newspaper, sipping his extra large latte, and obviously oblivious to the fact i exist. My hands are small but big enough to hold your heart, and my heart is big but small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. And I have already forgot where I am going with this... but now I remember... I want you to figure me out and I could write it all down on a countless amount of college rule paper and you would still be left to read between the lines.