wrote this post a while ago about a boy don’t give a fuck about anymore but occasionally stalk his Facebook photos and Twitter posts. So if you are reading this and think it’s about you, unless you are a 21 year old Nepalese boy who attended a small liberal arts college in Central Virginia, chances are this post is not about you. Enjoy.
Yes, tell me what I should be doing now.
Why cant I stop thinking about this?
Why do I all want is a relationship?
Why is that all I want and I can’t have it?
What is wrong with me?
What is it?
Am I Jay Gatsby? Grasping so hard onto something I cannot hold?
Did I mess up the relationship?
Or did it serve it’s purpose? Why are the ends of it so messy?
Why can’t endings be clear or clean cut?
Okay. Avoid them for three days, and then you can start saying hi after a week and it three months time you can slip into conversations with them and again and then in four months maybe five you can start fucking again.
Why can’t it be that simple?
I mean, if I was completely honest with myself all I would have to do is ask.
But that seems too easy.
Why does everything I say not sound articulate? Why am I never sure of my words?
Why do I always question everything I say or do?
I am sick of it… honestly I give up on social anxiety. I am sick of it and I hate it and it serves me no longer.
I am giving it up for good.
It’s so stupid. I’m going to stop wearing my contacts so much and many wear my glasses a bit more.
Maybe it won’t be as ascetically pleasing. But in social situations I will not wear my contacts.
Only in certain things where I really want to see. A movie. Maybe a bike or a hike. Times I am by myself. But in social situations I will not wear my contacts. Ugh. It’s frustrating.
Part of me would rather be miserable. Tied up in a ball without any hopes for the future. Having just enough commitments during the day to feel like half a person. Then drugging the other half. It’s so much easier to live that way, isn’t it?
To never have to think about any of it? To never have to think about your dreams?
No, not those dreams that your mother or your father had planned out for you.
No, those dreams you knew were inside you all along.
Remember when you were a kid you took interest in the things around you.
And there were a few things you really liked. And you did those things a lot.
Maybe you biked up and around the cul de sac at the end of your neighborhood, that you never knew was a French word so you would call it “cold-da-sac.”
Maybe you wrote stories about girl building wooden bridges to meet God or about your stuffed rabbit name Funny Bunny who was a superhero whose power was Silliness.
Maybe you would tell your younger brothers about the lives of the squirrels living in your tree outside your window.
Maybe you would try to lull your middle school middle school friends sleep, as their minds were plagued by tireless hormone-driven thoughts, with repetitive stories about Chimpanzees swinging from the trees – grabbing a branch, one after another, after another, after another…
Maybe after a math test, you would turn your notebook to the final pages where they were empty with beautiful teal stripes lining the page. You would write a letter as a prisoner in his chamber, writing to his lost darling, as he watches a violet struggle to live in the presence of a dandelion weed on his ledge.
You are afraid of people in real life. You never know what to say. You are quite shy. You are quite awkward.
You think so many different things.
Your mind is always somewhere else. You have a hard time articulating yourself.
You don’t know how to express yourself.
You feel like you are left out. All the time. You feel alone. Your friends stop understanding you.
That is when you feel most alone. Because not even they can empathize. No one really understands you.
You cannot articulate yourself.
You feel stupid. You stutter a lot. You get lost in your sentences a lot.
People don’t understand you.
You feel stupid.
You want to be cute. You pretend you don’t know things. You try to act cute.
Now you are stupid.
Okay now you are pretty. Now boys like you. But guess what?
They only want you for sex.
No, but really. Even when I feel comfortable with my thighs wrapped around your hips as I flatten out the grooves in your spine with the tips of your fingers, they tell me that you never loved me. I don’t think you ever needed someone to love. No, those lips, that banter, those shared smiles mean nothing.
Because the more I wanted it, the more you stopped caring.
Why is that? Should I care less?
There is nothing else I want really. All I want is to have you or to forget about you, but I know I wanted you from the beginning. You swooped in all the right moments. The nights I turned around. The night I made mine. I also made them yours.
But I still want you. A little bit of you.
Just to know that I can have you. If I wanted you.
Because I don’t feel like it’s fair to end us this way.
Because I feel like we had something more than what we thought it was.
Did you feel that when I wrapped my body around yours? When you were deep inside of me and looked in my eyes?
When you gave me a kiss before you left? When you took me in your arms and kissed me?
I wish you would remember the way I did. I always knew it was something special.
Hindsight is 20/20. I wish I had known exactly what to do.
I would have done anything to keep you.
Maybe not anything.
Because I did not.
Okay, maybe I did not cling that hard unto you. Maybe I wanted freedom.
But ultimately, I wanted you to give us a fair shot.
At least a little more sex, maybe?
I don’t know.
We could have at least have been friends.