I am love.

I am love. 

It is a ludicrous thing to say but I believe it. All this romantic platonic love I have for people makes me feel good. It satisfies me the way a single relationship cannot. I am not afraid to express my affections to the people close to me. I want to experience moments with different people that I meet randomly and by chance. Making every meet count and them seeing me as an experience. Making them feel something new,giving them something to think about, seeing them let go and be open with me,letting them realize what and who they can be: mad. 

To the ones who fall too fast

To the ones who fall too fast, too soon because they don’t know any other way.
To the ones who fall in love at first sight, the ones who believe in romance, the ones who get attached to a comforting word, a tender touch or a deep conversation.
To the ones who fight for love and see the best in people.
To the ones who think that everyone will appreciate their love because it’s unlike any other.
To the ones who can’t sleep thinking about people who are not thinking about them.
To the ones who don’t always know what they’re getting themselves into but they take the plunge anyway.
I hate to tell you this because I hate telling this to myself but maybe we need to stop, maybe we need to slow down, maybe we need to park for a little while before we start driving again.
Because we’re only hurting ourselves, we’re only breaking our hearts, we’re only giving our all to people who are giving us nothing. We’re only fooling ourselves when we wait for those who don’t even try.
Maybe you need to take a few steps back instead of taking a huge leap of faith. Maybe you need to stop chasing people and let them chase you instead. Let them find you. Let them choose you. Let them get your attention first instead of giving them yours right away.
Maybe we are just living in the wrong generation because we don’t know how to cage our emotions, how to pretend like we don’t feel but we’re also killing ourselves when we live this way. Things die inside us when we’re always faced with rejection and heartbreak.
We live in a world that doesn’t appreciate people like us, we live in a world that doesn’t understand people like us.
And maybe we shouldn’t change who we are completely, but let’s hide it, let’s keep it for a few special ones who prove they’re worth it, let’s be selective in who we choose to love and who we choose to build up.
Because we keep building up people who destroy us and we keep loving people who don’t love us back.
And maybe we need to stop falling for those who don’t want to catch us, maybe we should wait for those who fall for us first so we can fall together and maybe we should fall only when we know it’s safe, only when we know it’s not going to break us and only when we know that we’re not going to
Rania Naim from Thought Catalog

Some nights

It’s one thing to say one thing but it gets misunderstood even when you explain it. I get bored explaining things, that’s just me. Currently I just want to be quiet and listen. My favorite blogger on Human are Weird wrote down something I could relate to succinctly. I feel these things and it is okay, just listen without looking confused as to what to do with me. Everything goes, this feelings will go and at the moment I do have them.

“Sometimes you wake up but you don’t want to wake up you just want to roll over and fall back asleep because you hate your life and it’s all black and everything just stinks and you feel like a bad page of poetry written by some lonely talentless teenager but you realise that you’re not. You’re a fully grown man who has simply lost his will to keep on keeping. Yeah. You’re a bad page of poetry written by the sweaty pen of some pimple-spangled teen.

And you wonder why you keep on going what the point is if there is any sort of light at the end of the tunnel or where the fuck the tunnel’s end actually is. You kick yourself because you feel like it’s all your fault. You don’t work full time and you don’t live or lead a normal life and you know that you can’t you knew it when you were small you knew that you could do things really quickly and easily but that doing them stressed you out and that doing them required your attention and that you just didn’t have any attention to give. That’s just how you are and that’s just how it is but you still hate yourself and your life and everything in your life because of it and what the fuck is the point of going on.

And you feel lonely because it’s not that no one understands you but that no one really gives a shit or wants to understands you. If you want to feel understood you just pick up a book and read classic literature because a few of those weirdos understood you because they were a lot like you. But it’s not about being understood; it’s about people giving a fuck to understand you. And not even your close friends really give a shit and your partner does but it’s just for whatever fucked up warped reason not enough. And most your family feels like a different species of mammal and people around you feel like they’re from a different planet and it’s fucking lonely. And so you write.

And then you remember that writing is what got you into this mess in the first place. Writing is what gave you hope that your passion a passion you never knew could be pursued. And you think fuck, fuck fuck fuck. I’ve been doing this for so long now and seen absolutely no reward not financially at least and you wonder why, why why why the fuck am I still even bothering with this self indulgent practice that only barely keeps me saner than I ordinarily am which still isn’t any where near a point you’d call sane. And you remember that you love writing but apparently it doesn’t love you because it’s a fickle piece of the life that you so desperately want to end.

And you convince yourself that there will be light at the end of the tunnel that there is an end to this tunnel in which you’ve found yourself that this bottomless well isn’t actually bottomless and that it will all, one day, pay off. And you convince yourself that living a life that doesn’t forever desire little more than a bed and a dark space will squeeze out of the blackness of your vacuum chest and suck you into some less dire land where living day to day week to week month to month meal to meal isn’t. Is not.

But it’s bullshit because you just know it’s bullshit. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing is certain. Even uncertainty isn’t particularly certain. And so you roll back over into your warm pillow and you drool and you bite and you cry and you pull and you do everything that you can do to keep on fucking going because that’s what you have to do. If there’s one thing that you have to do it’s keep going.”


In my musing

I have been down, I have been rather quiet at times, I have cried with the reason being that I feel alone, I have been stressed, I have been calm, I have been patient and I have loved. I have been rather down it feels like sinking into a deep hole and you cannot get a hold of the sides. I have never felt that way before and I hated it. I usually do not like talking about what I am feeling just to avoid the response I might get like, “Do you think you might be exaggerating?”or “I think what you are feeling is something that will just pass.” or “Aahh you will be fine,don’t worry.” I do not want to be downplayed. I am feeling them aren’t I? So here goes.

Do you sometimes feel like you are the one who is overtly sensitive to some matters and maybe if you can just shut up there won’t be misunderstandings? When you think you are the cool, calm and collected person yet look like a clingy, stubborn kitten who has not been fed two meals. That kitten still wants to be petted. I think I have a point there. Where do all this feelings come from? Why do we have feelings in the first place, to make us human? I don’t want them. My insecurities make me cower, I have given them power to ruin my life and make me feel vulnerable in situations that I shouldn’t be. Are you judging me now that I acted blindly because of how I felt? I am already hard on myself. I want to be comfortable with myself, I swear I was. I am angry. I am angry I am smiling hiding the fact that I am not myself. If you ask me what I want I’d probably say I don’t know. I am not broken. I do not want to be fixed.