Tonight I sat on the steps in the
backyard and doubled over onto my lap, arms around my legs, the knees
of my jeans absorbing my tears. The dogs looked at me with something
like concern, and the mosquitoes bit my ankles.
I am lonely. I want someone to notice.
Call me! Text me! Email me! IM me! Appear on my doorstep! Say "hi", extend an invitation!
I want someone to connect with, and I'm sort of mad at everyone I know
for not taking action. I know that's unfair: If I want this to happen,
I should make it happen by doing it myself. But I don't want to impose
when I feel like this--who can I burden with my doubts and my fears?
Everyone I trust has their own worries, I don't want to add to them.
And I don't even know how to put what I'm feeling into words--who
exists who can understand without explanation?
Besides, I know that
if I reached out, this feeling isn't what we'd talk about. The deepest
stuff isn't often addressed, even my most intimate friendships usually
operate closer to the surface. It's not a bad thing. A distraction
would be welcome. However, it seems like it would be selling myself
short to actually seek it out. That's why I turned down the one
invitation I had tonight to see a movie with a friend. I kind of regret
that now.
So, I'll sit in the dark empty house, play Minesweeper over and over, consider making dinner (although I'll probably put it off until it's practically too late), and cry on the steps.
Because feeling bad is easier than feeling good. And maybe
because feeling bad is what makes feeling good worth it.
5 comments:
in the sweet wilderness of youth lies the beholden. Rise up swift child and seek the unknown...for it too dwells in the forest of inspiration.
call me sometime
Anonymous, you are silly. You must know that cryptic prose and secret identites are not condusive to getting girls to call you.
I'm just saying.
I like the way you say silly.
your photography is wonderful...I know some of those places which is how I discovered your blog.
until later...
The phrase 'The deepest stuff isn't often addressed, even my most intimate friendships usually operate closer to the surface.' strikes a chord with me.
On reflection, I remember crying nights when I am alone in bed with my tears, wallowing in strong emotion. Pleading into the dark night for a worthy intimate friendship.
And yet time filters, through a natural ebb and flow, the characteristics that I hold dear in my closest friends.
Each best friend is quickly sober in time of need. Intelligent, goofy, impulsive, pure hearted, and comfortably-tolerably imperfect.
So our conversation swings from bearing the weight of the world on our shoulders to an inane debate or a late-night ice cream run. I believe that time mixed with patience presents friendship like this to us.
Lastly, there is some fundamental, secret pleasure to wallowing in melancholy - genuine, honest, and true. And to exercise all emotions is divine and surprising how few ever do.
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