Knowing Me, Knowing You

I was halfway to dreaming, in that state where you’re not quite asleep but you’re not awake either, when I had this revelation:

I’ve known you for years and yet I don’t know anything about you.

This sounds odd considering how close we’ve been, and all the things that we’ve been through, and how you’ve been one of the most consistent people in my life, and that one can never quite seem to get rid of the other. But I really don’t know you at all.

Not in a, “You’ve changed, I don’t even know who you are anymore!” kinda way. No, for I never knew who you were to begin with. I’ve never known much about you. In all our hours spent talking, we never talked much about you. But you’d never give much away, even if I asked.

I don’t know how you take your tea in the morning,
I don’t know your parents names,
I don’t know your favourite album,
I don’t know what toppings you order on your pizza,
I don’t know if you have bad dreams at night
and I don’t know if you own a bicycle.

I’ve written this message to you:

Oi, I just had a weird epiphany.. I’ve known you for years but I don’t actually know anything about you!? Strange but true

But I’ve just deleted it without sending it because I know you don’t like me sending cryptic messages like that, you won’t know how to answer it, it will play on your mind when you don’t want it to, I’ll take too long to reply and you’ll think that I’m just drunk and/or having a breakdown and get worried. I know you too well than to send you troublesome messages on a Saturday night.

Comment added at a later date:

I know you. Of course I know you, I just don’t know things about you.

Things.
Things.
Those boring,
basic things
like your postcode
or your shirt size
or who your service provider is
or whether you buy blue, green or red top milk.

I don’t know any of these things but I know you don’t like me sending you my random bursts of crazy on a Saturday night when you’re busy with life.

I know you, I just don’t know things about you.

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