I have watched hours through a wine glass, and though interesting, it really only made it more blurry.
I want to be loved but I have this knee-jerk reaction to the idea of that sentiment because I feel it is very selfish.
So to counter this I try my absolute best to take a genuine interest in every person i meet on the same level that I want to be understood; I try to put the same kind of love I am seeking out into the universe and admire people’s talents, mourn their losses and rejoice all successes. Upon meeting someone, I seek to know them very well and not the they they have put on with their clothes, but the them they put the clothes on with. I listen carefully to the things they say. I am very quiet. I feel like this quietness is often percieved as an absence or judging or apathy on my part; often when they are finished speaking about themselves they just go on about their business. I then feel even more selfish for feeling the need to share an equal part of myself with that person and consequentially even moreso just thinking about how generally unrequited I feel.
In another way I wonder if I am just trying to spread myself so thin as to not let any one person get too close so that any truth of myself is fragmented in a bunch of random people that just spit them out at me on hazy nights I only remember in dreams or nightmares.
I dont know which is more true but I think both are at least a little. It is not stagnant though, but varying from mood to mood or something.
Bars are strange
People find themselves chased there running from their fears
Sometimes you meet someone running from the same thing as you
Sometimes you meet someone coming from the opposite direction
Only by a slight
A hopeless distance so constant that no closeness can heal it.
The want to dissappear so unrelenting that you wish to forget your own breath,
and forgive all your own good
and trade in this sadness for a badge that is maybe more ugly
but entirely more honest
and more definitively you…
I can not get as drunk as you, my knowledge keeps me sober
I can not get as high as you, my mind will keep me down
I do not fall in love like you, my heart will keep me out
if only by a slight
I feel my bed suspending me against the pull of gravity;
i only wish to fall to it
I feel it pull from my chest for my heart;
all that escapes are sighs.
This is the only wanting of me that I feel always.
It is the only want I feel always
I feel the river running through me wishing for dirt instead.
I wonder if I am the same to God, in him, among the molecules trying to ozmosize
As a pond can feel a fish wanting air,
The ocean feeling rivers wanting bread of land
While the angel sits on a cloud wishing only to meet ground
!and who could save me then!
The obedient soul who tucks itself safe in bed everynight,
and greets its want with each dawn
while wishing only to fall asleep in a warm bath
and never wake up.
I believe I have found love:
It is hidden in discovering, visiting, exploring, nesting or hiding in another’s emotional floor; To grasp someone at their worst, see it, accept it into yourself, and want for more of their moods and needs, their bruises and scabs, their distracted moms and their lost dads, all of one’s OKs and all of their bads; and all they never had, you want for him and so much more.
There at the bottom of their welled emotional self, the self they seek to hide, you are looking up at the walls of him and all you see is light.
I dont have much to say anymore except that i miss my friends… i feel like people only have friends from different walks of life in tv shows, otherwise its just temporary, or at least i feel like that has been my experience. maybe i should start going to parties again or something.
all i know is i wish wish wish there were someone to talk to outside of my apartment complex because i seriously would like somewhere to run away to for a moment.
My heart is like a box of tangled yarn shoved underneath the bed.
I am not entirely inaccessible,
But pretty close.
My loneliness is portable
It is so compact .
It speaks to me from there in you.
It speaks to me through you.
But it is only mine.
He knows and understands parts of me that no one else could even acknowledge. He opened me up and reminded me of tender, innermost, innate qualities that I had left dusty in my childhood and adolescence. Parts of myself that I had abandoned due to their seeming incongruencies with the world, he reciprocates, admires, appreciates, indulges.
To really listen to someone and hear them and understand them, and also to make the listening worthwhile for the speaker, you must first be vulnerable and open to feeling their pain as deeply as your own.
Falling in love with an introvert is like forcing the most delicate parts of yourself through the cracks in a doorframe.
I need to get away from you.
I secretly envy people who commit suicide. When I hear about one, there is always this tinge of regret that it wasn’t mine. I think of myself as very cowardly for not trying. But them! That person! A success! in that it is complete. I guess that is the biggest appeal of it to me. I like the idea of being able to decide when one’s life is complete. Or over for some but for me complete. Another part of my reasoning is this undeserving feeling for my joys. I feel like I have become more shallow as I have aged and I don’t feel like shallow people are capable of real joy although more than that I don’t see them as deserving of it; so I don’t think of myself as deserving of joy or maybee even life. I am closest to suicide when I am feeling most accomplished. I feel sometimes like continuing to live after an accomplishment and not progressing is selfish and that I should not ever enjoy an accomplishment without thinking about what is next or what went wrong or how deserving another person is of the same or even more deserving or how politics played into the actualization of this accomplishment and how my modesty and reserve is really this lazy kind of deception that I keep up only by being quiet and evasive. These are things that make me think I am undeserving of life. These are thoughts that lead me to fantasizing about suicide. I would leave no note. My life is the note. The note is in the silence during our conversations. Seek me there.
Also within me there is this ugly vanity I have about having never attempted suicide. Like mormons and sex. Yes, I get urges. Yes I dream about it. Sure, the sheer possibility of its potential occurance occupies a relevant amount of my daily thoughts. But have I indulged? Never. Do I wish I had? Often. It’s like this hidden virtue that I have that is actually a wish that is really a dark secret the world wont know unless it’s done.
But also I don’t think people would respect it as a real decision. The world sees this as some kind of cop out. Like the dead are worse off and the living know that to be true and the dead are stupid and missing out and they shouldn’t have died themselves. Like a college dropout or something. I see it more as a change of program.
I don’t care if I’m happy, I just want everybody else to be happy…
i feel like so often, my happiness gets in the way of others, so i have resigned my life to one of constant dissatisfaction, because so often, there is not enough satisfaction to go around, or at least that is how it seems…