Feelings best translate to the nightmarish segment of a childhood funhouse, the tunnel right before the end, it revolves in an ongoing circular motion, and through it you scamper like a gerbil in a wheel, attempting to remain upright on your two frantically blinking light-up sneakers, but the omnipotent presence of gravity trumps all. There’s an immense O-shaped beam of sunlight pouring through and perhaps your mother or friends or somebody is flinging a wrist left and right, casting a frivolous beam of laughter up at the skies, oh she’s so precious, look she can’t walk right!

Feelings best translate to the contrast between emotions upon placing Piketty’s Capital in my shopping cart on Amazon, and struggling past the first ten pages. Tackling Capital seemed like a remarkable idea until I realized my lack of time, patience, and intelligence. Feelings are my useless economics degree, and you are a 600-page Amazon bestseller. But you could be any book, really; you could be Harry Potter and I’d be both the robe-clad girl in line for Barnes and Noble at midnight, and the bible-thumper who thought Voldemort to be satan. You’d be Twilight and I, both the twihard and the English professor raising my nose at lowbrow literature; the soccer mom flitting through Fifty Shades, and the Jezebel columnist condemning its misogynistic nature. Through and through, you are the book, demand exceeding supply and comfortably nestled at the top of all lists.

Feelings are necessary and you are the sufficient; if it were diagrammed, it would parallel a logical reasoning argument like the ones on the LSAT. If I went to class, then I got out of bed. Getting out of bed is necessary, going to class is sufficient. If I think of you often, sometimes with no clothes on, sometimes with your lips on mine, sometimes with your arm around me or just even doing none of those things and talking, smiling, laughing, showing each other the things we know the other would like, and then maybe kissing on the lips and each other’s necks and quietly giggling about how nobody else would ever guess that this thing could be ours, then I have feelings. Feelings are necessary, you are sufficient, and perhaps one day those dizzying feelings will dissipate at last. After all, you are the latter half of an admissions test diagram, you are the wheel that challenged me against gravity, you are the geekonomics summer must-read I couldn’t handle. Because some things that once felt so radically innate, like asking to spend time with you, suddenly place me at odds with the bare bones of nature’s power itself, as though gravity is gracelessly rolling me off my rubber soles.

I don’t know how I feel about you, but it goes something like this.

?!?!?!?!??!?!!!!!!?????!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

I sort of like you. It’s not a certain thing; if anything, it’s less certain by the day. But I enjoy you and I like you and I care about you, and you have a nice face, and sometimes when it crinkles into a smile, it does funny things to whatever’s happening inside my chest. You’re remarkably supportive, a terrific friend, but you are also very flawed and very human. I like you, because you see things in a wholly way, you’re not too short-sighted most of the time, you’re very rational and calculated and understand the broader impacts of your actions.

You do not see the broader impacts of your lack of action. You are awkward and uncomfortable in certain situations, and restrained at times. You don’t express yourself well, you keep your thoughts and feelings under ten-thousand layers, let them bubble up for all the wrong reasons.

When you get past this, you are wonderful. But as long as this is present, it makes understanding and gauging what you want, and how you feel towards me, the most frustrating challenge of all.

You are confusing, I am confusing, we don’t know what we want, please let’s make out again and figure it out. You’re a terrible communicator. You are a fascinating human being, you are a contradicting human being, you are wonderful and terrible at once.