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"the truth was the only way out"
Nov. 13th, 2012 09:05 pmI'm deeply fond of the idea of being known by someone, and yet equally charmed by the process of getting to know someone. I fantasize about unfettered conversation where I just get to keep asking questions, and the other person knows I'm not being sarcastic or simple-minded, I'm just trying to feel out how they think about things. I get this sometimes, and on rare occasions, I can relax into it, but even with someone like Delight, where there's this occasional perfect-feeling sympathy(synchronicity? empathy?) of language, I worry that I'm imagining the feeling, I worry that I'm presuming something about another person, about our interactions, about language itself.
Sometimes I want to hear all the stories. I want to hear about the first girl or boy to break your heart, and the worst vacation you've ever been on and what makes you cry (101 Dalmatians, every single goddamn time) and how you decide who you are, and how you decide how to present yourself to the world.
I feel word-hungry most of the time, in a way that books can curb but never actually satisfy. And yet, I identify as misanthropic, mostly a shut-in. For all these words that I want, I also want to think of myself as self-possessed, if not actually confident, able to handle most things with bemusement. (though occasionally, I'll admit, I want to be acted upon, rather than act).
And I go through these cycles of chasing, and backing off, always writing the first email, or trying to make plans, and then deciding that I've shown enough of my soft underbelly, people will do as they please, everyone's got full lives and will get back to me or not, and my worrying won't change a thing.
Sometimes, I think I'm like our cat Noisy, who will roll over and show us her fuzzy, fuzzy tummy and sometimes she wants nothing more than for us to pet her belly, and other times it's a decoy and she uses the opportunity to savage our hand. Sometimes, I think life is like our cat Noisy, and I'm desperately casting around for clues as to whether or not there's going to be mutually-enjoyable bellyrubs or blood.
Sometimes I want to hear all the stories. I want to hear about the first girl or boy to break your heart, and the worst vacation you've ever been on and what makes you cry (101 Dalmatians, every single goddamn time) and how you decide who you are, and how you decide how to present yourself to the world.
I feel word-hungry most of the time, in a way that books can curb but never actually satisfy. And yet, I identify as misanthropic, mostly a shut-in. For all these words that I want, I also want to think of myself as self-possessed, if not actually confident, able to handle most things with bemusement. (though occasionally, I'll admit, I want to be acted upon, rather than act).
And I go through these cycles of chasing, and backing off, always writing the first email, or trying to make plans, and then deciding that I've shown enough of my soft underbelly, people will do as they please, everyone's got full lives and will get back to me or not, and my worrying won't change a thing.
Sometimes, I think I'm like our cat Noisy, who will roll over and show us her fuzzy, fuzzy tummy and sometimes she wants nothing more than for us to pet her belly, and other times it's a decoy and she uses the opportunity to savage our hand. Sometimes, I think life is like our cat Noisy, and I'm desperately casting around for clues as to whether or not there's going to be mutually-enjoyable bellyrubs or blood.
