An open thought to everyone in particular:
I'm not sure what you are to me.
That's not entirely true.
I'm sure what you are to me.
But what am I to you?
(That rhymed in a very cheesy poem sort of way, but please do not mistake it for poetry.)
Problem: I'm upset with myself over a rational desire. Why? Because I have an underlying feeling that it makes you unhappy in some way, any way.
Free will is a semi-lie. I don't get a choice in my emotions. Why would I ever to choose to feel this tortured over a matter of "absolute joy" (thanks, sir)? I already know the answer to the question; I'm afraid of it. See "Problem."
I cried for a little while after I told you that I feel awkward. You shouldn't assume that my problems originate in anyone but me. You shouldn't assume that you have an obligation to fix me. Your help is appreciated. I'm not mad. I know you're not either. I want to believe it moreso than the existence of a god, moreso than infinitude of eternity.
I want to believe, I suppose, that what you are to me is what I am to you.
But I won't ask that question. I don't know why. I do know why. I don't want to know that I know why. I don't want you to know that I know why. Why don't I want to know that I know why? Haven't we already established that we're not going anywhere?
I suppose I'm ashamed because it's you that I'm speaking. Every other being pales in comparison. No one else matters more to me. But how do I qualify that if you don't qualify it in the same way? How can I qualify that if you don't qualify that in the same way?
I am certain what you are to me. And it gives me hope; makes me blind; fulfills me; destroys me; allows me to cry; allows me to sing; hates me; forever forgives me.
Mostly, though, it makes me.