There's this amazing anxiety that flows over me whenever I think about reaching out to someone. This, even this, a blog followed by 8 people I mostly either don't know or haven't talked to in a decade, and I am overcome with this miserable certainty that I have nothing to say, that I am wasting your time and mine, that nothing will come of this. It's almost miraculous, my body and mind immediately reacting in tandem, like touching a hot stove.
Except that it's like if, being burned, I believed that I could will myself un-burned with sheer force of mind. I'm brilliant, after all. They all said so, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't agree. Shouldn't I be able to push through any anxiety just by outsmarting it?
I've been told that being honest about my fantasies is worthwhile, that fantasy can beget change. Well here's one of mine. I want someone with conviction and perseverance, someone who's a do-er not a wimp like me, to see my ideas and not just say, "Huh. Cool." but instead say "GOD DAMN THAT IS SO COOL WE HAVE TO MAKE THAT HAPPEN!" and then they grab me by the hand and... we fly out the window okay that's Peter Pan, but you get what I mean.
I just want someone to be with me, not to do all the labor for me, emotional or literal, but just to be there when I start to doubt myself, hell, just to have somebody in the room I know. Someone to pull me along, a Jeeves, a Zooey Deschanel, a Ryan Gosling, some sudden spark that sees me slinking back into my hole in the ground and says, "Oh no you don't! You're coming with me!"
And not to have them be my whole life, either, that's important. I've already killed enough flowers through overwatering. But it's just so hard to let go of a good thing, especially when you feel like they don't come around a lot.
I feel like I didn't know how good I had it when I was at school. The clarity of it all, the certainty of a schedule, a forced community, forced events. I had some friends, if not too many. I got invited to some of the parties. I crashed one once. I wasn't really happy, I didn't really feel like anybody got me, saw me. But I had a life.
A life. it's a low bar, but still... I dunno, I just hate how much of adult life is on me: it's on me to motivate myself, to try, to work, to live. I wish I could be my own manic pixie dream girl.
But then, why would I ever fall in love with me?
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