Sometimes the words come out and then get sucked right back in before they even form full concepts. Sometimes all I want to do is write words. Sometimes I have this sense that if I could just say it most accurately, I would find the way to be loved entirely. Accepted entirely.
I run from perceptions different than mine that are touted in my direction as relevant to what I said.
I want people to like me, yet I don't like them, I sometimes really don't like myself.
I yearn for the feeling of belonging. And suspect so often that the very thing I long for is precluded from my very own ignorance or immaturity. I have come to despise the word mature when it comes to people or human traits. If we are just constantly evolving and maturing, isn't what's mature now, going to be immature later ?
I've been toying with this idea of playing by society's rules. Maybe giving people what they expect, despite my own distaste, because it is meeting us where we are at . . . ? Because it is where we are.
Fucking oscillation man. One moment things look like one thing, the next moment it's the total opposite. As soon as I settle on a way of doing things, the whole paradigm changes. I feel behind the curve. And somehow I have this assumption of most people that they are rolling with the change so easily, or like knew it was coming, like they wore pants to the party that I showed up naked to. But most people I talk to don't really seem currently like they saw the wave coming before it arrived. Interesting to see that I have a perception of what I think most people are acting like, even though the people that I actually interact with are not exhibiting those signs.
Truth is, it seems I really interact with very few people. I know of many people very vaguely but I only deeply converse with maybe 3-4 people. No, 2 people, pretty seldomly, so maybe that equates to just ONE. It is odd to have ideals, assumptions about how a life is supposed to be like. A muddle of comparisons to what we see and possible future timelines.
I'm constantly analyzing how I think I could come across to people that hear me talk. When I don't want to be judged, maybe when I'm judging myself the most, is when speaking feels the scariest. I'm still so with that sensational experience of putting my heart and words into some explanation of something and being met by the person with something lackluster or seemingly different than what would've felt like they really got it.
I have had the sensational experience of feeling really gotten. Who am I if no one gets what I'm saying ?
Who am I if no one knows the truth of my nature ?
Having done circling and Authentic Relating for so long, it's odd to find my way with the world where we are at. It's weird to have felt that what I've been craving so long actually is very possible and unrare, but to still have to go around seeking it out in all the unavailable places.
The sixth line of the story, the last line, speaks of being on the cutting edge. The one where you are seeing over the ledge before the next story. The place that the previous five lines couldn't see.
It's painful to live a whole life being insinuated what you want is not how life is. When you can see it is. But don't know how to convince the previous lines.
