I have a folder in my Booksmarks Bar, full of my friends' blogs. Most of them have been untouched since 2013 or something. I'm the only who keeps writing. Either that or they've moved onto different URLs unknown to me. But blogging isn't as much of a thing now as it used to be. Now you can update your every thought and activity in realtime, thanks to social media. To be fair, blogs were always the sort of place you'd write down all the stuff you didn't want most people to see. You mostly wrote for yourself, just to get it all out. And I think that's what Twitter used to be for me, except now I think its distasteful. So that's why I'm still here.
It's funny
When I read back
At all our posts
We were a lot more eloquent then.
I feel very sad when I think about how my writing has deteriorated.
I feel sad that I don't read as much anymore.
I feel frustrated that the books on my desk are too heavy for me to bring around.
Most of all I feel panic.
Panic and Imposter Syndrome.
People tell me things about myself all the time. Sometimes I feel like the only reason I know things about myself is because people tell me. They tell me that I'm cool, they tell me that I'm attractive, that I'm competent and know what I'm doing, that I'll always know what I'm doing, that everything I do will turn out fantastic in the end.
I look at my portfolio and hate it. I explain it to my interviewer and I hate myself. I look at a design project and feel absolutely nothing but terror. Terror of disappointing myself. Terror of being trite. Terror of being exposed as being entirely vacuous.
He shows me in the most obvious way possible that he's interested in me, he does so for weeks and weeks. And I can never accept or believe it, because I'm such a fucking mess. And every single day I flinch and wait for the moment when he changes his mind, the moment when the silence is intentional. I wait in terror for the rejection. I hold back from texting for fear of appearing clingy. I delete messages for fear I've said too much.
One step forward, two steps back.
Sometimes I think I've made leaps and bounds with things like body image, general self esteem, ability to talk to other people without dying of anxiety.
Other times
well
....this.
I miss you. I miss us. He isn't you and that's taking time for me to swallow. I can't look at the Lurpak in my fridge without thinking of you. the first and last thing you ever made me was an omelette. I salt the butter with my tears. I can't look at otters without thinking of the morning, that morning before it all happened, when you said they were water maos and you were so right, they were such water maos. And you were a mao you were the bestest mao and you could never be mine because cats change their minds 12 times a day and I kept waiting and waiting for the hammer to fall.
I don't know what I'm doing I tell myself he's a friend but obviously he's something else and I am not ready for him to fill your shoes because nobody ever can. That's a fact and I need new shoes.
I need new shoes.
Yours are too big.
No comments:
Post a Comment