No one will ever annoy me as much as I do.
Incapable of letting things fall into and rest in their graves, I poke and poke until the tip of my finger is raw and sore.
I always feel this deep unhappiness that accumulates in my chest until I sit down and write it out. That’s writing for me – physically painful if I don’t. It always makes me feel better. Not that I ever write about being sad, because I’m really never sad, just aching to let my mind run wild. I don’t realize I’m fake sad until I finally get to writing and relief spreads from my fingertips to the top of my head and the bottom of my toes.
I hate cliches, but sometimes they are necessary.
I know myself pretty well, well enough to dread certain things I know I’m going to do even when I don’t want to do them, but I know I will. I guess I’m familiar with my autopilot mode and I don’t try to restrain it anymore. If deep down you want to do it, doesn’t all of you technically want to do it? I struggle with that. I can never fully convince myself whether something was 100% wanted or not, and maybe it never is.
I need hard answers. Solid yeses or nos or 42 or whatever the final answer is – no room for arguing, because arguments equal infinity. Both have no limits, and that stresses me out. Maybe I’m good at writing because it’s harder to argue with me that way?
I’m easily detached and quick to forget except when I become infatuated with one thing or another, then it’s impossible for me to put it out of my mind until the next thing happens. Again, one of those things in my autopilot I hate but have given up on because it can’t be changed. One can change one’s mind but not one’s nature. I’m quick to selectively trust, and terrible at correctly judging first impressions. The only way to truly impress me is with your mind, and intelligence and passion are the traits I value the most in others. Any type of intelligence – whether book smart or street smart, I look for the spark in the mind. Wit. Bravery. Something. I’m not easily impressed.
I get homesick like three times a year and it’s usually pretty bad, like you’ve been so busy swimming for hours and then stop to realize you’re in the middle of the ocean and it’ll take you hours and hours to get back and you mildly panic until you realize you got there on your own and you’ll be back just fine, probably. I’ve been homesick lately. It’s lasting longer than usual, and I’ve felt a deep longing to be back by the ocean now for a while.
And so I write. And so here I am.