I don't make plans.


It's hard to tell.

I've got all this... something. Love, I guess. Compassion. Empathy. Charity. Something.

I'm like anyone else; I've been fed (gorged, really) on modern romantic comedies and Disney princesses and classics of unrequited-ness and fantasies that transcend time and space and dimension and (like Rob Fleming/Gordon said) thousands of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. I don't think it has made me miserable, though. It's just made me confused.

It's not that I expect fantasy. I don't. I want reality.

I just can't tell when reality is there. If it's there. If it ever can be.

Everyone else seems to know when it's there. They don't just believe in it; they know. They can tell their eros from their philia, their agape from their storge. They have experience -- real-life, this-actually-happened proof. I don't. I've been close. But not close enough.

I can't tell if I'm living an unwritten life or just writing it myself, but badly. Or maybe the writing is there, but the performance is off, the emphasis all wrong, the metaphor over my head, and I stumble through the reading, uncomprehending, unfeeling, dull.

Because I know not what I do when all this... something, that I have, comes out. There are reasons there, obviously, somewhere inside my psyche, if you'd care to poke around in it (and I'm not sure why you'd care to, but some days I wish I knew how). But there's one reason that should be there. I'm not sure I can identify it.

When you're already willing to do anything for anyone, just because they asked, how can you tell when the asking is more important than the doing?

When everyone means the world to you, how can you tell when someone means the sun and moon and stars?

I don't know.

Yet.

1 Response to I don't make plans.

  1. Eliza says:

    I don't know either. People tell me that I'll just know but what does that mean? And is that true?