I want this

What am I doing?

Why am I doing this?

I'm driving myself crazy. And how am I going about doing so?

Staring at glimpses of your life. Pieces of a puzzle that are either lies or extremely raw depictions of you. I'll never know which.

How does this drive me crazy?

It makes me long for a happiness that I'm not even sure exists. A happiness that I want but seems so far away.

There's a love there. A love that is only dreamed about. Dreamed in wild stretches of the imagination.

And yet...

You show it to me. These glimpses that may only be a flippant pause to you.

Your stolen glimpses speak to a part of my soul that wants so badly to reach fulfillment. Fulfillment I'm not even sure is possible.

I love this thing that doesn't represent what you are showing, only what I see.

My heart is begging for a reprieve, but I cannot stop.

I love this.
I want this and I love this.
I want this.

Excited. Obsessed. Either way it leads to self-hate.

I need to go to bed (she notes as if she hasn't started many other posts with that observation).  I'm giving myself a headache. I'm completely amped about a project that isn't even mine. It's time for me to take a walk down memory lane and see...




how obsessed I am.

Man.

Talk about a rude awakening.

The object right now is PoPS. Unfortunately, the me I'm finding as I read past blogs is the me that I want desperately not to be. The super fan... also known as the OBSESSED fan.

I have to check myself to keep from messaging them multiple time throughout the week. I want to be friends when I know I don't quite deserve the title. Basically, I feel that if anyone was bombarding me as hard as I'm bombarding them, I would hate that person. Problem is, I don't know how to chill. Plus I don't want to. I might as well remain a nuisance throughout the remaining episode.

Being obsessed over Harry Potter was so much easier. In a way, I could always hide behind the series. I wasn't able to pinpoint one specific person and come way too close to professing undying fanship. This may be my insecurities, but there isn't much that I do without imagining them on the other side saying, "Holy smokes, will this girl eat shit and die already."





And this post is proof that I'm at my most optimistic at the end of my day. Clearly. I didn't even come here to bemoan my lack of control and shit on my excitement. I came here because sometimes all you need is 21 seconds, as seen here:

Dear Co-worker

Really it should be an open letter to non-readers, but first explanation. I've been told I can be quite snarky. I replied that I could try to change, fail and hate myself as a result. I decided at the beginning to veto that course of action as it's way more fun to hate everyone else. I wrote a letter on assignment about reading to two different people. One was a letter that strove to relate and connect. The other was condescending and rather cathartic.

Without further adieu:

Dear co-worker,

                You do not quite understand my need to read through a lunch break. You do not quite get that the few moments that I get with these bound pages have been what I’ve been looking forward to all morning. I understand that you do not realize that a book can be an adventure into another world. That it can help you better empathize with those around you. It can also help create understanding, not only for the reader of the world, but to let the reader know that the world can be understanding. These things are important to me. Reading is important to me.

                A few things. I do not generally consider my reading time as time to talk. I would rather not have to explain the plot. Thirty minutes are short enough when it is just a break from work. Imagine it is the only time you can snatch from your day to spend with your significant other. It seems shorter still, does it not? Reading is my time with my significant other. Even those books I am not enjoying are books that are standing in between me and those I want to read. All of the time I can get to put that book behind me is precious. While I cannot control your personal book associations, I would rather you not try to start a conversation with asking if I have read the latest book that is being blasted throughout the press. You see me with a book, know that now is not the time. We can talk genres when I am not currently trying to escape into one.

                I know these things seem rude. I assure you I am not meaning to shut you down as a friend. I simply need you to understand that my time with a book in front of my face is not a time I welcome conversation. While I need to work on being offended by questions that are clearly asked to connect as human beings, I would also appreciate it if you would save them for times where I am not trying to read. Reading is my refresher so that I can take on the rest of the day. Throwing aside the desire not to be pretentious, I am asking that you respect my desire to not engage with you and to engage with the bound paper inches from my face.

Please consider these things,

Avid Reader

Oh who cares

It used to be that when I got tired everything was the end of the world.

I can't find my keys = I must destroy everything.
Joyous laughter* = I must slam things.
Touch me again** = Imminent destruction.
I have a lot of work to do = I think I'll cry now.

EVERYTHING is something that can cause an overreaction. I'm one more hour of missed sleep away from becoming a raving lunatic.

Well, I say used to be. Most of that is still true, but I'm finding that it's beginning to change ever so slightly. Where dealing with other humans only produces uncalled for angry outbursts, there is a nonchalance, if you will, that is sprouting up.

Lately, missing sleep has me seeking a more permanent resting place. No self-harm or anything. I'm just finding a rather acute awareness of my and everyone else's limited time on Earth.

You annoy me = One day I'll die.
Someone is hateful = One day they'll die.
Humans remain uncooperative = Still a 100% chance of death and being forgotten.
Telling me you are better than me = When we die, none of this will matter.

Things just keep pointing towards our similar chances of dying and being forgotten. In this state, I find myself repeatedly asking myself why anything matters. Who cares, right? As humans we are programmed to care about ourselves. In fact, the only reason we seek to correct others is because we feel it affects us. Isn't that right? What would it matter if I decide instead to not worry about any of it? We are all going to die. None of this will matter in the end. Who really cares?

I do, of course. I care, albeit from a completely selfish standpoint. I care and I won't realize it until I get some much needed sleep.





*Laughter, closely followed by music, is purely one of my favorite things in the world.
**Me upset over people touching me? I am constantly invading everyone's personal space. I have absolutely no ground to stand on with this and I know it.