Author’s Note: The bulk of this entry was written on October 26, 2013; some minor edits were done at the time of publication.
Sylvia Plath once said “I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them” and man, can I relate.
My relationships — with both people and life itself — are either passionately-dispassionate, unwanted interlopers upon my cherished silence and solitude, or a sickening, fuzzy mess of simultaneous love, terror, and jealousy which I desire to both hold close and run screaming from in terror. Inevitably, both circumstances lead to burnout and are accordingly temporary. Each eventually metamorphosing into their respective evil twin and restarting the cycle. Sometimes I feel capable of doing all these great things and feeling all of these warm, analog feelings, but other days, I can’t do anything other than round off the edges and rough bits of life in order to make things simple enough that I can drag my reanimated corpse of a soul from one day to the next.
It’s sounds stupid and I feel almost like I’m lying by saying it, but maybe it is for the best that things are this way? At least for now. I don’t think that it is a completely sustainable mode of existence (my brief moments of burning need to for some deeper connection and some less transient form of attachment to this life belay this fact) but it has been nothing short of a gift to have such a long and blissfully complete period of intimacy with myself without a constantly resonating pang of longing to invite someone else to share in the beautifully-shabby little space in this world I’ve carved out for myself.
I am happy where I am for now, but I am not opposed to reconstructing my view of who I am and how I interface with the world should I eventually feel dissatisfied with this mode of being. There is a fine line between self-acceptance and self-denial and I am aim stay to the right of it.