3 years ago1,000+ Views
Hello, friend. Okay, maybe not friend, but I know you're there. I can imagine you sitting with me, talking to me, breathing with me. Yet, you're not here. You're not in my house, or on my phone, or on the internet. I know where you are. You're in my head. A sea of walking corpses are around me everyday going somewhere, a wave clashing into me, minding their own business. I get this sensation among other tranquilities that I should reach out and say, "hello" and I should make the common courtesy of wondering how their days are going. They ask me that, and I tell them I'm fine. I turn weird. I am afraid, and they walk away. No, you're not fine. You're in the middle of a fight. Fighting everyday to actually plow through the shyness, a way to combat your true feelings and make the action of communicating with another human being seem alright. You don't do that. Instead, you sedate yourself, to looking at them from the outside. From your room with a view, from your computer screen. You're afraid of what they might say to you and you try to get creative by saying how interesting you are by sharing your hobbies or tell them their flaws, or asking them to hang out sometime after work or do the intimate thing by patting them on the shoulder or hugging them, or maybe, just maybe even...wha, what? Sorry, I, uhm, I should go. I want to help them, be with them. But you see, I have this condition. Something I've lived with. Perhaps even born with it and was based down from someone in the family who had enough exposure to the world that brought them down to their knees and a blow to the head. Or perhaps they've been treated badly after helping someone out and all the shit they got in return forced them into isolation. They were hurt by this. I am hurt by this. Is it a sense of freedom to help a person out when you're scared shitless to know what they are like? You hide like a predator in the dark, but you don't strike because you want to know what their next move is. Do you reach out to people for help when you've got grief on your face and shaking like machine? No, because when you reach out to other people, what good will that do after they've listened to what you have to say? Will they come back again? In a way, it's both, but not for very long. You help out of kindness. They say how sweet and thoughtful you are, but you cannot reach their level so they can be at your level and be with you forever. Through anything. Through sickness. Through suicide. And yet, I sulk like a dis-bodied fracture because they think of me as a pervert, a clueless chump, a man not worthy of being with people. I, and others like me are not perverts, or clueless chumps, or someone not worthy of being with anyone. We're like this, not because we want to be alone, but because we want to learn the body language, the psychological side, and the intimate sacrifice people give us so that we can no longer sit at home alone crying our guts out and sedate ourselves to make the pain go away. You can think of it as a cliche where we say we want someone and we push them away, but really, we push them away because we want to be absolutely sure we're ready to open up and say, "How are you? Let's hang out sometime after work." If you stick around long enough, you can see something you weren't paying attention to. The good stuff. The interesting stuff. The next level of legacy. And we'll do the same for you, if you'll let us. That's how we can be free. Thirteen years. It seemed not too long ago either. But you're here and are like me. You want to be heard and so do I. I'm tired of hiding it, so, here you go. I've said it. Are we okay?
1 comment
Wow, thank you for sharing this!