I have taken to sleeping long hours, simply because at least in dreams I do not feel the pressing weight of boredom on me.

Sometimes I have fleeting thoughts on Capt. I wonder if he is healthy and recovering from the emotional scars I inflicted on him. Those thoughts are bubbles that dissipate faster than they come. I guess, he really is fading into the archived bits of memory I do retain.

I hate the presents I got for the Beau. Tacky, gaudy, contrived. A sterling silver keychain. I bought a few charms to hook on that keychain. All of them bright and glittery. All of them engraved with little snatched bits of Shakespeare's sonnets. Each will be given to him with the corresponding sonnet. I have two silver charms so far. I intend to get another for Valentine's Day, and another for the day I leave for home. I have even marked out which sonnet I will quote for which charm. Sometimes I seem to be more in love with the idea of love than in love. And I know it. Why else this strange uneasiness, this muddying of emotions, this need for appreciation and attention? This dull adherence to romantic gestures.

And I fear that he might not understand why I do it. He might not react the way I want him to. He might not realise the intent of the entire gesture. Or it might be more accurate to write that I might not get the reaction I hope to get, and am attempting to receive. I am a manipulator of emotions. I fear he is better at this game than I am. Perhaps we deserve each other, in our little steel spiky bubble of selfishness.

Shoot. I so wanted to write about my New Year Resolutions. But it seems the heart has a mind of its own. Hahaha.