I seem to get too attached to people, in that, when I love someone I latch onto them. Like when I meet someone and they exhibit qualities I attribute to close friends and family I can’t help but force myself into their lives-as intrusive as that sounds. A conscious criteria I have based my friendships on for years; when I meet someone and it feels like I’ve known them for years and they feel like ‘home’. I seem to do a runner when I find myself in spaces that do not offer any comfort or safety, and I don’t mean this in a literal sense, but in a more sentimental way–comfort and safety offered through feelings and emotion. And when someone cannot provide this for me, I flee. This is a realisation that has come to me only recently and this is probably why I don’t have many friends, because I always run away from prospective connections merely on the basis that I do not see the people I already love in them.
I sincerely believe that the competent must embrace the innocent, and the powerful must love the powerless. And that the genuine meaning behind all of life and all that exists is love.
I’m bored to death of everything. Nothing thrills me. Men, whisky, cigarettes, it’s all fleeting-superficial, nothing but tediousness and dread. I’m tired of meaningless one night lovers. I’m tired of forced conversations. I’m tired of forced friendships. I’m tired of forced living. I’m repulsed by the taste of wine. Poetry is draining. Art is bewildering. There aren’t any storms in my life. The seas are calm. I feel dead.
Do you know that we will never be this beautiful again? That one day we will all be dust.
People often indicate to me that I have a tendency to isolate, that I ‘spend too much time on my own’. A case of having friends more social than myself. I often get the third degree about my levels of loneliness- about the amount of time I spend by myself and how I occupy my time when this is the case. But I always emphasise to them that in fact, I relish the time I spend on my own. Spending time by myself, to me, is in fact a luxury. I love spending time on my own like it’s something special, despite the fact that I have a lot of it. I think there’s a very thin line between being alone and feeling alone. I think being ‘alone’ is but a description of a temporary state of being that doesn’t include other people. And feeling ‘alone’ on the other hand, is accompanied by a very melancholy-like tone. I’m always a dog with two tales at the thought of spending time on my own. I come from a very tight-nit family that has always-without ungrateful intent-been too close for comfort–bordering on ominous intensity. Where everyone is denuded of any privacy. Give me a first-rated book, an intimate café in the city, a pre-owneds’ record store, a easy-going stroll down a street accompanied by a cigarette, all by myself, and I’m just as happy if not more, as I would be if I were doing all of it with somebody else. I also quite enjoy socialising, an enjoyable amount that equates to the level of joy I feel to spending time on my own, believe it or not, and having the freedom to choose between the two. I think that having that balance is fundamental to getting to know ones-self. Spending time on my own has afforded me the ability to grow, to gain an understanding of myself, to grow a strange and yet familiar tenderness for myself, the exploration of my mind and ideas about the world, myself, void of any hinderance the outside world could have undoubtedly afforded me, oh so generously. I believe ‘alone’ time becomes a worry when it escalates into alienation; when you outright refuse to do anything or see anyone. I think that’s when things have turned into something more than just wanting to spend quality time with yourself. A number of things can attribute to an isolated life, It could be emotionally charged, or psychologically, even economically-ranging from having an anxiety disorder, to depression, to feelings of inadequacy, as well as a result of socioeconomic issues. Certain things are not as black and white as we like to believe. You can’t tell somebody how to live their life. But you can’t turn a blind eye either if and when things start to seem more than what the surface exhibits. Yes, we cannot bear a concrete knowledge of anyone’s internal life, not even our own. But we should allow ourselves, if need be, to be slaves to the powerless and the voiceless. Pointing out someone’s weak points is never an easy thing to do, let alone admitting to your own, but is most times a necessary and crucial thing to do.
People often ask me, “What are you attracted to?” And I always answer, always gaily, writers. I think there’s something spellbinding and covertly sexy about a person who can pensively express their thoughts and feelings through words.