Get me more Choglet

And what shall I do? And when shall I begin?
I was rather overwrought today, what with not meeting and wanting very much to meet. Yet, there's also this. I am forgetting to have a life of my own. There's work. There's also this thought that runs through my head ever so often. Well, that's not exactly the reason. It's rather that I have lost the rhythm quite.

Apart from it all. I feel a little scared by my own franticness, by the extent to which I end up investing in an affection. I have very little idea of how he feels, whether he loses sleep over the lack of words, over the daily forgetting, the reforging of connection over mail, over the emptiness otherwise. It is true , you know, to a certain extent that I am lonelier now than before, when I was reading. I feel very bereft now, but I can't seem to come to books. A paranoia, or laziness, fear. Animal reassurance, again and again, that things will be alright. Of a smiling face, of beauty- of finding the eyes as beautiful over and over again. Of even happiness, of a permeating sense of calm that does't threaten to go away. It's frightening that I keep hoping for all of this of a person. That I have dreamt and wanted it already, that I might have to turn back and walk alone again. My desperation, kindness, and more kindness, as Forster put it with such love