2A. Why is it that I am so passionate on the inside, but I feel like there's some sort of disconnect?
3A. Why is it that I'm smirking and nodding and saying it's all cool, but really, all I want is for you to turn around and kiss me on the cheek in a way that suggests you understand? That you get it?
4A. Why is it that I'm asking a hundred million (likely) unanswerable questions, like I'm going through one of my adolescent existential crises?
1B. Because a very vulnerable and beautiful part of me is blooming, and it needs to be protected.
2B. Because once I realize I can become what I want, what I strive to be, there may be nowhere to go. Because maybe the happiness is in the idea, or maybe in the journey, or maybe in the fruition.
3B. Because I'm scared to be real and potentially unaccepted. Potentially hurt, rejected. I could handle that, though. Maybe that would be a greater gift than getting what I want.
4B. Because I'm going through an existential crisis. Or perhaps just living.
I could go on to list, with passion and zeal, all of the wonderful, artistic, creative, espressive things that I want to do. I've recently made the observation, however, that this has become a pattern.
1. This is where I am. Thus,
2. This is where I should go. Thus,
3. I'll write a list of steps I need to take. Thus:
Step One: Get started.
...
Cue crickets.
Cue tumbleweed.
Cue vulture's cry.
Exit motivation.
And here we are. I am left back at the beginning of one of those trippy-ass time loops that makes your head spin when you see them in the movies or on the tv. And you think to yourself, "Shit, that was so complicated and yet so simple. Like, a paradox or some shit. What's a paradox? Imma Google that and then go eat some Sun Chips."
That's where I'm at. I'm in some spiral limbo, eating Sun Chips with a look on my face that could be described as a cross between doe-eyed and removed. Aloof, but slightly vulnerable, but aloof to the fact that I'm vulnerable. You get the picture. Do you? Do I? Who am I? What flavor are these metaphorical Sun Chips, anyway?
I want to write letters, so I'm going to. I think I'm going to, anyway. Maybe I should (See? Do you see what I do to myself? Even when I'm about to express that I'm hoping to release myself from the obligations to follow my heart, I'm employing the word 'Should'. I shouldn't do that) relax.
Relax.
Feel your body, and the space it's occupying.
There is a duvet covering the majority of me, but my arms are cooled by the air. There is a slight weight on my chest because of Sally, my doll. I like to think she's comforting my rampant, confused heart. She knows what's up. She's a little pink doll with a tiny green bowtie and a bear onesie, and she's always smiling. Her arms are a little stubby, but they're always stretched out. She's kind of starfished. Her pose makes me feel really accepted, like she's happy to be my doll. Like she's not judging me for being 20 and still finding comfort in what most people would assume to be a child's plaything. Clarissa Pinkola Estes has some very powerful opinions about dolls. I wish I could reiterate but my memory and my willpower are out for mochas.
I read somewhere that a large number of teddy bears have an intentionally neutral expression so children may easily project emotions onto them. I don't know how I feel about that. I think I'll go to sleep soon. There's still noise in my brain, but now that all of these thoughts have been transmitted to the incomprehensible entity that is the Internet, it's just lonely, wanting noise. I wonder if I can make any of these primitive, mournful emotional cries at all poetic.
Dear Somebody,
It doesn't matter who you are, but it does. I'll take anyone. I'll take anyone who will not make themselves available to me. Is that too much to ask? To be with somebody I can't be with? I don't think so. My friends say I have self-destructive patterns, but they just don't see the appeal of a man who loves somebody else, or who lives across the ocean, or who doesn't technically really exist. They just don't see it. I see it though, and I want you to know that I love that about you. I love that I don't know what your eyes look like.
I love that I can't tell you how I feel, even though I want to shout it at you every time you catch me by surprise. It's like, I'd look up from my inventory paper, and you'd be there, you'd just be there all of a sudden and my heart would skip and my stomach would churn and I'd feel like I was plummeting and my eyes would bulge and I'd just yell a reactionary, "I THINK MAYBE I LOVE YOU!" And then my cheeks would flush and I'd be dewy-cheeked from the stress of exploding into a million shreds of wanting you to touch the spot between my shoulder blades with the pointer, middle and ring finger of your right hand. Slowly, like you were hesitant, or curious, or savouring the feeling of a little bit of my skin on a little bit of yours. I love how I'd burst into a million shreds of impossible for you.
You make me smile with your silence, with your platonic flirtation, with your e-mail correspondence.
It's so frustrating, trying to make a kiss into a stamp, but I'll keep trying. I'll keep hoping you remember me, and how my lips first felt on your collarbone, even though every ripple, every wave that passes through the oceans between us laps away at the memory. Hundreds and thousands of ripples and waves have probably already cleansed my name from the sand of your shores. At least they were gentle about it. They took their time. Two years ago I was your rock, but when you went back over the water, it knew to break me down, over time, back into sand. And now I'm here. Maybe someday a child will make me into a glorious castle, with turrets and a little flag made from a granola bar wrapper, and you'll call me beautiful again.
The sound of you not knocking at my door resonates through my chest each day. As soon as I open my eyes, and stretch, and greet the day, you are the first person who leaves a voided silhouette in my mind. I'll get up, not thinking of you. I'll brush my teeth, not thinking of you - I'll hope my skin stays clear for the dinner date we won't be having tonight. I imagine sleeping in an empty bed, and my heart feels filled, fit to burst from not having you. Not knowing you. I want to say yet, but yet is a threatening word and I won't let it harm you. I miss you so much. I wish you were here, and you were taking me on a dinner date, and I wish you would hold me in your empty arms and not tell me that you understand me. Because I know you're the only one who does. Who really, really does. But your side of the bed is still cold, and my hand is grasping at the fabric of the air.
I've fallen for you, all of you, and I am overwhelmed by all of the love I feel. I am pouring out, I am overflowing with affection, but I am alone. I am unseen. I am invisible. I am nothing because I choose to be the wallflower, the shadow, the breeze you don't notice until someone points it out. I'll cool the sweat on your brow, lover, when you get just a little too warm. I am the comfort taken for granted. I am the weeping yogini. Don't you see fit to love me back?
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