I’ve reached a point where I have to write a blog post. I haven’t needed to for a while. I haven’t, for 2 years. But now this is the only way I can justify talking about things. This is the only way I can talk. Being heard, which is another issue entirely, is down to air.
Connecting with others has always been hard. It almost always leads to disappointment. It’s partly because I always want more. I want you to try to put yourself in my shoes, as much I try to put myself in yours. I want you to remember as many things about me as I remember about you. I want you to speak the truth, and not to pretend. Unfortunately I can’t always get what I want from you. Even though I don’t think I’m asking for much.
Because we’re all somewhat unique, I know it’s very difficult to understand exactly how others feel. I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t expect you to understand the emptiness. Neither do I expect you to understand the constant self-loathing and fear. However, I expect you to be conscious of them. Being conscious of them is part of knowing me. I wish you would see beyond the surface and the half-truths it sometimes represents.
I’m willing to reciprocate if you do these things, if you treat me this way. However, because I can’t get what I want, I’ve chosen to bury it. I’ve also learnt to adjust my expectations. But my faith in others has dwindled. And I know that as I grow older, it’ll get harder to make any connections. I might start to withdraw more and more, as it becomes easier to bury it. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I will feel the need to write more blog posts. Maybe this will be the only genuine outlet I have left.
Perhaps none of this will matter. Either way, it’s left to time, and air.