It's Christmas and my family's fallen to pieces so of course, I desperately want to e-mail him and try to re-establish contact, but, bless him, I can't imagine he's got much more sane recently and I know I haven't. I don't want to screw either one of us up any more than life already has.
What's doubly weird is that he appears to be writing Mac programs and stuff, so some of my friends might have encountered him on the internet. At least he doesn't have a bloody LiveJournal. And he appears to have finally realised he's bisexual. About damn time, I was telling him that when I was fourteen.
What's triply weird is that the internet has given me his address and he's living about two minutes away from notintheseheels.
I wish things weren't like they are, I wish things weren't like they are, I wish things weren't like they are. Oh well. At least he's getting on with stuff and not just sinking slowly further into madness, which I'm sure is what the family were all assuming he'd been doing. One day I'll fill those of you who don't already know in on the details of my family's comically twisted interpersonal relationships and Why Nobody Talks To My Brother Any More, but not today.
I still really want to write to him. But I know it's not the right thing to do.
I'm in one of his poems. I think I'll cry for a bit.