http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du4IO17n5dw

I don't like lying. In fact, I dislike lying so much that I can't actually *create*. I can only write about the things I think are true, I think fiction is bullshit.

I dislike lying so much I rely on humour all the time. Not as a substitute, but as a way to be honest. It's stupid, I know, but it feels like joking around creates a relaxed-enough atmosphere that would allow virtually anyone to just say things. As they pop into their brains. I really believe in saying things just like they pop in and out of people's brains.

I've been dying to let you know I'm currently listening to Sigur Ros. In fact, I had been planning on writing something on this dumb blog about 5 minutes before actually starting to write anything at all. I feel like I've premeditated a crime; I'm currently killing words, killing time, killing, making dead, draining of life, I fucking suck (the life out of things, mwahahahaaaaa!)

I hate things that aren't of the present moment, that are not created on the spot, I hate rewriting things, rereading and editing... I hate complicated words. I honestly don't think that I am dumb enough to be biologically incapable of memorising freaking 'complicated' words, but I won't fucking do it. There was a time when I didn't know the word 'inconspicuous'. My life is literally 3 words better for it, now.

I sometimes like talking in code. I like Eric because he speaks in code-language to me. We have similar-enough code-language to make sense to each-other. I love a lot of things Eric used to do. WHAT THE FUCK IS A FERRARRI AD doing in a Sigur Ros Mix? Anyway, now that that's out of the way, let's talk about Eric again. (Is Ferrarri spelled with 4 r's? Hmmm...) He improvises my name. I thought he was just being cute, but he admitted to never being capable of actually remembering it. Once he called me Oanitza. It almost made me cry because that's what my granfather (who's maybe not be my grandfather?) used to call me. Oanitza... I remember we had a phone. A yellow, cool, phone that you can stick to walls :). So I don't know why it was my neighbour who came to tell my dad... "Domnule Florin... Nu stiu cum sa va spun asta... Ati primit un telefon de la matusa dumneavoastra de la Iasi..." -Tata?" "-Da." He didn't shed a single tear, that strong daddy of mine. He just let out a big, big sigh. Apparently, my cousin dreamt of it the night before. People've been trying to convince me souls exist. I have yet to be convinced. I set out on that adventure of discovering the truth in Romania in 2008, but the only source who could've attempted to convince me was in the hospital and off-limits. I used to get feelings about people when I was young --- Alright, that Sigur Ros mix is such a fking failure.

Eric googled how to say stuff in Romanian to me. It was cute. I once wrote an e-mail to him in Romanian. I wonder if he ever figured out what it meant.

 

But he played the mysterious card too much. I mean: I need people's stories , or else I don't feel connected. Once he tried to let me know.

 

"Eric, tell me a story"..."Once there was this lonely boy away from the girl's castle"... He knew how to tell tales, and he also knew that's not what I meant by 'story'.  But he was too fucking mysterious, like he could be perfect in all other ways minus that huge part which I need: people's connection to their past. Bogdan said he doesn't care for the past. It's meaningless, etc. 

But actually, the future doesn't exist. To me, it is the future that is meaningless. The past and how it shaped us or failed to is everything. The present is meaningful for analysing things and obviously making new memories, but the future is not even meaningless. Something that doesn't exist and never did can't have tags attached to it. Will we really be fine? Yes, we will. Because the future does not exist, and the present somehow always ends up some form of alright.

 :)... I love this song... it... speaks to me? 

I hate giving of myself to people and not getting back. Fucking capsule-hotel bubbles...

I know I'm not cool for using variations of 'fuck' so freely. I'm not gentle enough for the word to misfit me. But I'm not raw and crude-ish enough not to realise it stains me, either. And thus, I lie. Every time I say "fuck", I'm lying. Now put it out of your mind and let me be.

 

I don't like lying, but lying makes life so much easier. I was around 7 when I told my first lie. My lies are always independence lies. Hm. Maybe not.

I used to go to "Scoala de Muzica si Arte Plastice", twice a week, for around 4 hours per week. Two theory, two practice. I hated it. I was waiting to give my second year-end 'concert' when I witnessed it... I witnessed the 14 year old guy play, his hands running on the keyboard faster than I could make mine run with my mere 2 years of practice. I saw it and I died, because it was beautiful: so, so incredibly beautiful. She said: "This is how an older person plays". I realised: "This is how I'll never play". Don't fucking support me. Don't encourage me through support.  Don't condition me, I'm not a fucking DOG, I'm a SHEEP. 'M an ARIES, bitch!... .. .

I wish I could insert speeds. Reading speeds, so that you can read this just as I write it. Maybe I should make a video blog. With a sort of computer thing that records what I write in video form, as I write it... So then sound and... speed can be felt, too.

Oh. Hahaha! No, that wasn't the first lie I told (I was going to mention one, but then realised it was another that came first)! The first lie I told was when I was 6! Bwahahaha! No wonder I'm a master at this by now. :). I was there after school (Music was after regular school). I still wetted my bed from time to time; I think I did till I turned 9. Very rarely, but still. Must be something in my family... And my teacher wasn't there. I spent two hours practicing. And I needed to go pee. But this girl came in the room and asked me to listen to her playing. And she kept playing, on and on, and damn I really needed to go PEE! Like REEEEEAAAALLY badly. It's embarrassing to have bodily functions when you're 6, you know? But you wanted independence, and now you HAVE IT! But who's gonna tell the girl I need to go pee? Mom used to tell these things to people after I whispered them into her ear.

"Excuse me, umm... it's getting late, I should get going" "-No, no, just a while longer, listen to this!" ..."-But I really, really need to go" "-Wait wait"... Too late. Fucking 6-year-old bladders.

 

I ran to go get water and try to wash the carpet afterwards. I started crying. The girl was older, and kept telling me that it was okay, and not to cry cause it would go away what I'd had done, but I kept crying till I was exhausted. "Don't worry, it'll dry by tomorrow". I didn't show up for the next few classes. It did dry up. Leaving a FUCKING STAIN. Lucky that the carpet was a disgusting green to start with. A cheap, super thin, doormat-worthy type of carpet, but still. Cheap olive green with very, very old yellow-turned-poopey from the extra dust. And now with a stain on it that I can still visualise... getting darker at the edges.

"Do you know what happened here, Julia?"

"No?". And that was the fall from heaven.

So no wonder I hated the place. I had traumatising pee memories of it, I never really liked the piano, I didn't enjoy reading music sheets because she insisted on telling me which finger to use for the freaking legatos to work well (and she didn't even explain why! I don't like doing things for no other reason but higher power...), I always loved the Cello much, much more, and truth-be-told, felt like I actually belonged on the first floor - the painting section...

So I lied. I lied and I went 50 meters further on that street, to a number I can't remember anymore: Buni. Buni was my Grandfather's (half-)sister, (as I recently found out). Can't remember when I had met her, but I think I liked her because she secretly reminded me of my doll Susan. My parents didn't like her because, as I would much later (very recently) find out, she was secretly spying on my family to give reports to my mum's bitch-of-an-evil-first-X-chromosome provider. I think I look a lot like her, so I hate her even more for that particular reason (my grammy, that is).

 

I walked the 50 extra meters and went to her place and she'd feed me noodle soup.  I've since been fond of that type of soup. We'd talk a lot. I probably <i><b>lied</b></i> to her, a lot. Nothing horrible... Just little things like... "Yes, my mom knows I'm here after school" and "No, I don't have to go yet" :). I actually didn't know I was lying. Or maybe I did. But one time I really should have left earlier, because I usually finished Music at 4 and it was already 6. The walk back home only took 20 minutes tops. Mom became desperate and came to look for me. I met her on the way down, by the bank. She was worried. She squeezed my forearms so hard I thought she would make me dissipate into dust. It hurt. I wanted to cry. 

 

I knew I had done something <i>bad</i>. I didn't go to music, when music made mom happy. I wasn't disciplined enough, mom would be angry. I was bad. Mom would be disappointed in me, and I think I knew even then that my music was her pride to all of our relatives. And I think I was aware on some level that a little village would be so impressed that the child who everyone bet would marry a poor shepherd and die without any of her teeth left - like there's some correlation between not seeing with an eye due to accidents and being retarded; well... she has been losing her teeth, actually... - actually went on to become an engineer and marry another engineer (of whom they ignored the alcohol problems and fucked up background, thank goodness) and procreate a beautiful baby-girl-child who played mewsic BEAUTIFULLY - as far as my grandma's gossip was concerned. So I did something bad.

But I knew I did something good, too. Or at least my self-adoring little ego claimes I did: I entertained an old, old lady for a couple of hours. A lonely lady, who by all means appeared to be pretty damn awesome in my 7 year old eyes :). And who died soon after.

 

 

"Where were you??!"

 

I don't know. I have AMNESIA.

Hahaha. You've gotta give me credit for that one and bad (horrible!) parenting points to my mommy. God. I mean. Sure, let the kid watch Argentinian and Mexican <i>telenovelas</i>, and not only will she pick up on the Espanol, but the most far-fetched, out of this world excuses to why she's late and she missed music class. :)

By this time, anyone in their right human mind would notice that lying makes life so much fucking easier. :). I was in my right mind.

Next came that time I lied to this dumb girl who was more popular than me with the guys when they wanted to be popular with the girls - I was only popular at those times when they wanted to be chased and kicked the brains out of; I was a preeeeettty sweet ass-kicker. Well, she WAS my friend. But lying was required to re-establish my alpha-femaleness in the group. "Yeah, I know what's happening anywhere in the world, I can hear people talking from very far away" <- how can <i>anyone</i>, 8 years old or otherwise, FALL for that shit?! It's un-fucking-believable to me now, and it was then, too. "Really? No you can!" 

"Sure can! In fact, right now there's this kid getting beat in a small dark alley in Bucharest" And honestly, the way Romania worked back then and still does, that last one wasn't a lie: it was a well-founded assumption, pushed only ever-so-little into the realms of truth-known-by-smart-8-year-olds.

By now you're probably thinking that when I fell from heaven, I must've really hit the lying money-tree, or something, and grabbed a few apples from it...

Maybe it's true.

 

Then I lied that the clothes I had packed away behind the door were because we were playing. But they were there because I was tired of dreaming of chopping my ten little fingers off and crying myself to bed, and I imagined I could leave and my mom would be sad because nobody will know how to play the piano, then. Not cause she loved me and she'd miss me, but cause she'd miss the piano. Chop, fingers, chop!

 I don't remember what it was that I had packed. I remember I wrapped them in this piece of cloth that protected the holy chairs of our living room from our oh-so-unimaginably-dirty asses. I'd have definitely been able to carry the little package, but I doubt it was very efficient mobile-wardrobe material.

It was a party.

"This was for the game. Right cousin?"

"...Umm... yeah..."

Poor couzie probably had no idea what was happening. I don't think she ever heard a 'thank you' from me on that one. Better this way, cause I hated her for taking my clothes and making them look better than I ever could 'cause she had longer hair, a prettier face and twigs for legs.

 

A lot of hatred to feel so young. I wish I had been more innocent then. And now.

There was also lying involved in what concerned toys. I wanted to give them away more than keep them.

 

But there was a girl who lived in the same building as the dumb girl previously mentioned. Well, OKAY, to be fair, she wasn't dumb. It's just that I always ranked first and she always ranked 3rd. And also that she had ACTUAL Barbies with bendable legs. How many? A WHOLE BAG of them. A bag as tall as I was. I remember asking her if she could lend me some to play once. Only I can't remember what happened after that. Probably she did, or else by now she'd be remembered in the 'history of Julia' as full-blown RETARDED. 

Then I must've also said some other minor lies not worth remembering... like telling my aunt I HADN'T used her star-shaped hole-puncher.

 

Ah, yes, but we were about to talk about the other girl. Now apparently SHE was a compulsive liar. She went really, REALLY all-out on the stuff. 'Ghosts of her mom scratching the front door' type. Kids didn't like her much. I guess there's a limit to how big you can dream? But I felt for her, and I refused to hate her. She was just a sad soul, and it's sad the rejecting-types didn't actually get it.

 

Oh. I might've also lied about not liking Levi. He was way older; admitting to it would have made me a freak :). I was 9. He was 16. He did all the cool stuff I couldn't do, like jump over cars while rollerblading. Some extra cool shit, I know. I dreamt big. I liked Levi. My best friend liked Peti. Nobody liked Sisoe. I could've liked him out of pity, he wasn't horrible, and there's something about cheering for... underdogs :). And he also jumped over stuff. So cool :)

That should cover my first - Ah, no. One more:

"Oana, you don't like Mihai, do you?" We had gone to Moldova for grandpa's one-year-sice-death memorial thing, or whatever you call those. I had never identified with my dad's side of the family, because I only saw my grandpa twice before he died (enough to have him call me Oanitza) and my grandma none. "No, I don't!" (another fluke: liking a boy who's 18 when you're barely 10...) "Yeah you do, but you know, he's your cousin, too, not just mine. It's a sin to like family that way"                

Fuck. Tell me that BEFORE I go gaga over his smooth, LONG hair next time? 

That's the first four years of lies. Since then, I've lied 2 or 3 times to save myself from embarrassment (<i>Yeah, I KNOW it's just Pants, but Pantaloons are a BRAND </i>... Right...), and too many times to remember in order to be left alone and feel independent. "Did I just hear the door close downstairs, Oana?", "No, dad, just your imagination". "I swear to you that I did, and it's 2 AM" "Who could've been here, dad, GEE!" :). ...

And I lied about not being hungry. I did that pretty often. Sometimes my stomach would object out loud: those moments were ridiculous. But it generally worked. :) 

Recently, I've been lying a lot about knowing people from "safe" places. But I guess that's common; some guys even make it one of their qualities to be willing to lie about not having met online. Yes, I know him from Vanier, yes I did great on that exam, yes I did submit CVs to places, No, I don't owe library fees, yes, I've enrolled in courses for the fall term, and yes, I ate well and slept last night. Yes. I'm fine. Just get off my back.

Get off my back because I tried to be open with you people and you got tired of trying to help me out, like I'm some creature whose problems are a puzzle for two days and then turn into a chore as if by magic. I don't need you to remind me how dumb I am, how emo I am, how unproductive I am, how nothing is actually wrong with me that I can't think myself into fixing.

I'm tired of being told I'm not enough for you.

 

It's alright if you tell me you don't like me because I lie. It's alright if you tell me you don't like me because it's unhealthy for any normal (yet special) human being such as yourself to hang around people who don't have their lives together. It's okay to try to limit contact with me because I'm not more energetic and I don't get up at 5 AM and I won't graduate university next year like I could've --- can you believe that?! I could've graduated at 20! :o ---, and I don't have enough of an open mind when it comes to astrology and poetry. It's okay to be disappointed that I'm missing out on so many of the beautiful parts of life. It's okay to keep me at a distance for not excelling in school anymore and being incapable of taking care of my body and not knowing how to cook yet. It's all fine.

But stop telling me I'm not good enough because I'm a Romanian pure breed and I'm not build differently with longer, sexier legs and I'm not fucking Jewish, and I'm not 26 with my life together and amazing innocence and accepting soul to offer you, because those are things I really can't work on. Stop telling me about things you dislike that can't be changed right now, like the fact I'm not like Hybrid and this or that person who've only had long-term relationships. I slept with three people, but I'm not some sort of whore for it, I'm just really, really hurt, maybe by all the lying that's been piling up over the years and my accumulating desire that I'd have been even more simple-minded, or way less, just please get me away from here impass. And I've tried to fix whatever I can't figure out is wrong with me, but so far, nothing worked.

It's hard to have desires of chopping out parts of your body or worse for years and have only rational mind to prevent you from it. Because it feels like punishment will fix me. It feels like if I take all the pills in the house right now, It'll All Be O-Kay. "Doc, what happens when you take too many pills at once?" "You didn't try it yet, did you? It's really not a pleasant way to die, honey"

I don't want to die, I'm not suicidal (aside from that one time, but apparently everyone does it when they're 14), I just want to get it OFF. It feels like there's something on my skin and I need to scratch it off, and I can't, because I don't know where it itches, and the solution seems to be to take.off.all.skin.

 

So much hate and so much self-hate has accumulated, and I'm SORRY if I'm fucked up and I CRY when we're together, but I want it to go away, and it never does, it fills right back up to the point of saturation, and everything's been taken away from me: I can't sing about it, or write about it, or talk about it, or draw about it, or dance about it, I'm blocked like there are stoppers to any creative outlet ever possible. I can't even CLEAN right; even that's been taken away. I can't study right. No matter what I do, it's never enough.

I WANT TO BE ENOUGH, already.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I guess one is either saved, not saved, or dies before reaching either of those.

 

 

It's not nice to see you in pain after the first date or 5 dates, etc, when for the longest time you were calling the moments we spent together 'meetings' and 'appointments'. It not-so-secretly makes me feel like you never considered me as worth your time.

It's also not nice to see you in this sort of pain because it makes me understand how useless I am to you for not being able to understand you beyond words and jokes and help you be more like you'd want to be.

Honestly, the last few times we spoke, I just felt like a drain was opening at my feet and bye-bye, there goes my energy.

One of the most hurtful things you said was "Maybe I'm capable of not falling in love with everyone I make love to" after the Marathon. I guess we have different definitions of love, but you just made it sound like you won't even love me by my own meager standards. 

Maybe actions should speak louder than words, like the fact that we spend a lot of time communicating and how you keep telling me you won't abandon me. But that respect that you mention people should have for each-other and which is sometimes lost? I often wonder if I have that from you in any way. Not that I deserve it for being 19, completely useless, not soulful and innocent enough, a compulsive liar, unable to be a good friend and instead meddling in your business... and also unreliable... or even kissing you on the first date. "Yeah, I don't do this, I only kissed Suz two months after we started dating". Oh perfect. Thanks for reminding me I have the appreciation of a desperate female who'd kiss virtually anyone on a first date in your eyes, it's great.

 

Yeah, I'm jealous. Yeah, I hurt. No, I don't want you to start treating me any differently because I'm showing 5% of a sensitive side in this part of the blog. I'm only letting you know because currently you are the best friend I have and this is the sort of stuff I'd tell a best friend. I hurt every time I'm not enough, be it for you, for my parents, or simply for myself. I hurt a lot and I'm confused a lot. And I rarely cry, and it won't happen with you again: I'll bite my tongue. In fact, I think that the most I'd be able to do around you right now is curl up into the tiniest ball I've ever made.

Curling up makes my skin touch itself and I have the illusion I'm being held and loved and that I'm not a bad child.

 

Once I cried over the phone with Stefan. Not because of something he said. It was stress-crying. I know stress crying, and the one you saw the first time and almost-saw the second were not stress-crying examples. He said "Are you crying around me as a girl-trick to get me closer to you? Cause it's not working." Are you FUCKING SERIOUS? Get over yourself, dude: my ego is WAY too huge to ever allow me to use such pathetic cards. In fact, I rather have important experience in biting back my tears. So no, I don't cry with you because I'm trying to 'perversely' make you take pity on my poor soul, in case that's ever crossed your mind.

 

And sure, you can make it sound like I'm not in touch with my emotions and there's something wrong with me for it. I'm sorry I cry like that, it must be horrible. You must not enjoy it too much. I'm sorry very few things get me crying as well as that. But it's not stress-relief crying. It's "I'm not a bad kid" crying, it's "Look... I'm okay, I turned up alright" crying, it's... "I FEEL something next to this person, this person makes me *feel*" crying. In my eyes it is the most I can offer you: it's me sharing with you those instants when I feel the most I possibly can, and it hurts that you don't want it. But I'll be fine. It was good pearl creation when it happened.

 

 

I cry because we don't speak. That's why. I cry because it makes me finally shut up and stop trying to so desperately look for words to be amusing and entertaining with. Probably if you just stared at me long enough I would end up crying just the same. I'm honestly sorry that I cried those two times. Unless you say something about how I've come to a wrong conclusion, etc, I won't again. I don't cry for your amusement. I don't cry for you to look down on me. I don't cry for you to play psychologist with me and allow you to THINK about how to help me. I cried because I thought there was NO thinking involved and we could just ...Be. A different type of communication.

 

I wish I could understand art. I wish that when I went and looked at Dan's mom's paintings, I wouldn't have had to render the concepts I saw into words, I wish they spoke to me directly. I guess that type of communication can only be achieved once I learn the building blocks of it. Just staring at a math equation won't make me understand it if I have no clue what the symbols represent, so I guess learning is needed, and feelings must be felt before images of feelings can start being processed by brains/souls other than their creators'. 

I don't know why I cried. It was totally uncool of me. I also can't express in words the process of it. To me, it's the closest I get to experiencing what the soul is supposed to be. I rarely get in touch with those precise neurons/neurotransmitters. If you were next to me right now the way I can imagine you'd be right now, I wouldn't cry. You'd be too much of a real person, concerned by things I don't understand at the same level you do, and I fear it was like this all along and I made a mistake crying with you.

 

If only I knew what to become, I'd try to transform myself. Feeling like I'm not enough is definitely not healthy ground zero, thought, that only makes me want to do horrible things to myself that I deserve for not being enough. "Horrible". Ha. imagination is never horrible if not acted out, is it? Or isn't it? Or?

 

What was I supposed to explain to you that I couldn't say in spoken words? I don't remember.

I cry because of 'belonging'. Crying like that for me is the physical response to the concept of 'belonging', whether in that particular fraction of a second I feel like I belong or I realise that I really don't. There is some truth they must all have, these people. Grown ups. Gary. Gary must have the truth, but maybe he doesn't. I'm so tired of hoping for fantasy while calculating its improbability. How much time is enough, Kevin? I spent months this summer trying to work things out for myself and have made insignificant progress. How much time will be enough, then? I know it's there. There exists such a level of understanding and I must be capable of it, I've been here before when I was trying to make sense of the law of Gravitation. I've been here, also, right before that time when everything was illuminated for that precious 10 minutes.

I'm hungry for that understanding, even if I know I'll forget all about it too quickly, as if it has a mind of its own and only stays in my hand as long as it's properly entertained. Between all the tiredness and empty words and the physicality of telling jokes which are good for the density of the smoke screen I experience really too, too often... where is the truth?

I can't just stop telling jokes, it won't take care of the problem. I can't just pack clothes and clean, it won't make me have the energy necessary to maintain a clean state - physically nor mentally. Tell me I'm not broken, Kevin. Block out one of my eyes and do the cool mirror trick to make my fist unclench.

 

 

I don't want to be so full of hate. I don't want to be as dirty as I am. I don't want to be as selfish as I am, and I don't want to hurt people. That's why I thought psychology would be good. I thought it would teach me about how to avoid hurting others; I'm not big enough to know by myself. I want peace. I want lucid peace, because, for me, in its absence, it's just a continual state of postponing this desire I have of ending the quest. Go to school first, figure things out later. Get a job first, figure things out later. ...I can't do it, The answer's much too painful when I remember to ask myself how I'm doing today.

 

I like Eric because he cries when reading Winnie the Pooh in Latin. 

 

But also, I love you. 

 

 

 

 

It gives me all of those things.
I guess I do see you in a weird way. Friend, and you're also such an amazing man, you know. I don't want to sound silly, I'm never been particularly fond of sounding silly when I mean to be serious. It's (as you've noticed) somewhat of a pain for me to be as open as some other, more mature people are able to be with you, but I attempt it sometimes...

Most times when I tell you that I love you it means exactly that. It means that I wish I could give to you, and that I wish I could give unconditionally. Paradoxically, it actually means that I have... fed. It means that I think of you and there's a warm feeling flowing in me. The warm feeling comes to me both whether I think of you as a friend that I'm willing to protect as much as I could do that for anyone, and also if I remember that time we were taking mirror-photos and you did the whole arm-wrap/womb-touch thing which made me feel SO female it was incredibly beautiful.

I'm not sure I'm any good at being useful to you. I'm not sure being self-less is even a possible concept. I mean, I'm probably expecting something in return for all of those peanuts, or something, you know.

I need to be nice. I'm not faking any of it, because I'm actually not nice. I didn't plan on taking the peanuts along: I was just exiting, saw the box, grabbed it thinking it might come in handy to some. But I can't deny that maybe it's all training in disguise. ... I used to buy timbits weekly for my photo class in the fall term. Because it's nice to see people eat; it makes me happy. So maybe it's all for me. It is always all for me, actually, I guess.

Sometimes I wake up or fall asleep thinking of you. Or, ...less like thinking and more like feeling. If I think of you, I remember that horrible life-style of yours and feel green. If I feel about you, I remember little instances that made me happy and wish, wish, wish that they made you feel the same way and also that you remember them sometimes - like I do.

What makes me sad in general is to realise that some of my most precious, treasury moments might not have the same meaning to others. What makes me even more sad is realising that there are so many wonderful moments I forget about when I'm too wrapped up in worrying about the present and the future. So many wonderful things that I've forgotten about...

 

Like? Or love. I don't know. Being fond of. Keen on?

Endearment? I'm not so good at assigning words to these things.

There are times when you don't make me feel little and those times almost convince me there are other parts to human beings than their brains and bodies. Sometimes I feel we communicate with something more than that, and it's so scary to think it isn't real. My INTP side loves truth so much and is so afraid of being humiliated because of my F side that it just blocks any thoughts of things that aren't... empirical. It's sweet to believe in spirits and all, but I'm afraid it makes me weak, I'm afraid it's a crutch, and I'm afraid it isn't even actually there. It's so safe to be part of an illusion with many other human beings - like believing in a god. There's always someone who will believe he/she identifies with you; it's pleasant; it makes one belong.
It's a bit harder (for me) to feel like you (I) live something that involves only one other particular person at a time because the validity of that experience lies in whether or not the other person believes it's all true as well.

You really are like one of those roses to me. I could stare at you for hours and try to learn your smell and squeeze you just to capture your essence...

Sometimes when we communicate too much in words it takes away from my illusion that we're having the same experience.
I don't become intimate with just anyone. Sometimes I put the other person on a pedestal 10 times as big as it should be (as for Luc) and feel slightly nauseated remembering it afterwards. But the reason I kissed you the day when I met you was because I had no other way to tell you how I was feeling. And you weren't even on a pedestal, cause you hadn't had the time to impress me with awesome stuff, yet, it was just real-time emotion. And it hurt when you called it an 'appointment' and it felt really uncomfy (like the first time you wear thongs, if you know what that's like) when you later decided to analyse the day. Not because brain food is not as important and yummy as soul food. But because I was afraid that you were always outside of the experience, as opposed to having been in it and choosing to analyse it for fun later, not for actual understanding of it.

Cheesy, immature and whatever, but to me, some experiences feel like there's a purple bubble forming around the people involved and they're someplace else, and in that space they communicate so much better than they could ever do even if they were the best communicators ever outside of the bubble. It scares me I'm in those bubbles with nothing but my own projections. So I shut down feelings, because, it really does feel like feelings are only true if they're shared.

I don't know how to rephrase it, define it. It makes no sense to me that you like astrology. I'm not going to like all of your poems and I'm always going to wish they were straight-up raw and heartfelt and not brain-created/altered. Poetry is supposed to be an expression of... the soul and I hate it because it feels so, so tainted sometimes, stained by the brain's desire or the ego's incapacity to let things fall as they may on the paper. Maybe that's why abstract painting means the most when coming from the inner person, and maybe that's why it's also worth shit when the body will stain it... None of it will ever be a perfect mirror of who the artist is... or maybe... it always is, because the amount of the art that is calculated is specific to that particular individual and it can't be divorced from the skill of the body and the initial will and passion of creation. ...

What was the topic again? Ah. I love you.

...
You've been imprinted on me. Amongst other people, of course, but maybe attached to more important organs - even if they're actually all just as important for a healthy body, I guess. I love you because you're part of me and it's easier to love the parts of myself that weren't mine to begin with.

If you were to be a part of my body, you'd be my oesophagus. I'm really attached to my oesophagus, you see. It feels like that's the feeling part of my physical entity. The part that refuses to eat when I'm unwell mentally. The part that warms up when I'm loving the universe.

But I guess that was a bad scientifico-poetical metaphor, of course.

Call it a Moon in Leo, that side of me. The side that needs to feel appreciated more than it's worth. I know there are more worthy people out there than I am. It's why I can't bear but hate everyone, I guess: because no matter whom I want to end up with - it could be some person I originally think is useless, worthless and worth shit, too - they'll always find someone better for them, and I'm going to end up being alone; a friend trying to find the magic formula for what the ones I love need, so that I can fulfill something in them so that they'd want me. So that I be worth something. So that even my parents see that I'm lovable, that I'm enough, that I can take a while and just breathe. So that I understand that I'm worth something. To someone. So that I can learn to value myself and love the other parts of me, like my short legs and Sheep-looking features...

:)

...

Infatuation.
Is it bad? I heard it lasts three months, so it shouldn't be over just yet. You have another month or so :)... Is the purple bubble really just a mirage? ...

Sometimes I need words in return to make sense of the bubble and to know if I'm just nuts or it really is there. Sometimes I need stuff from within the bubble, the intimacy bits, touching hands without holding them while walking down the street, maybe: "Hey! We're good kids, Julia. Let's breathe the world", would the gesture seem to say.

I wish I could trust you. I guess I don't. Even if you were a perfect companion for bubbles, I'd question it all. What if you're some mastermind that controls illusions so well and I'm actually alone, while millions (or nineteen so far?:P) bubbles surround you and we're all puppet-ed into feeling? Then again, would it be bad for someone like me to be made to feel, even as a puppet?

I'm afraid of being humiliated. Laughed at. Used. I felt used after Luc even if I was just as much a part of the experience as he was. I can't help but skip the songs I have from him in the playlist, still. It's been 8 months.

Sometimes when I 'voice' these things and read them again, I understand how unreasonable these fears are, when really the only person's experience I truly understand is mine. It comforts me to remember sometimes that I truly am everything in this universe seen through my eyes. Everything I've known has been imprinted on ME, the KNOWER, there is no original version I can experience, there are only Julia-shaped versions.

I'm jealous. Of Martine. I hate her name. Let's call her "Bear". ... I'm jealous because she was able to reach deeper within you than I have. You once said I'm not playing my cards right. I'm not playing any cards. I don't think, I don't analyse, I don't plan ahead. I just sometimes look back to re-experience things through memory.

I'm just trying to be the most like myself that I can be, and I think I'm a lot like myself around people because I try my best not to lie to myself... and if I'm not deluding myself, it's impossible for me to do that to others, I wouldn't know how to, so I like thinking I'm sincere.

And so it hurts that the purple bubble that I know of is not as vivid, as rich, as... much as it could be. It hurts mildly because I'm human and possessive and I want to trap you and have you for me all the time, of course: a collection of sea shells. But that's 20% of it. It hurts more that I feel incapable of creating feeling better emotions. Not only are my emotions not validated by those that create them and whom I wish to share them with (everyone seems to be outside of the experience bubble), but also, all those people have better bubbles. Like compating Kodak Vivid Colour film to Fuji Natural Contrast. It's not horrible to feel lonely in my bubble, but it IS horrible to think there are limitations in my nature that prevent me from experiencing as much as others get to. Like I'm missing something because I can't like dogs. Like I'm missing something because I am incapable of being more open and sensitive and caring and loving than I am without faking it. I'm afraid of not being part of the delusion. Because if everyone else is part of it and I'm amongst the very few ones to whom it isn't given to experience those things... then I'm the one outside of the truth.

Damn INTP and truth and knowledge seeking!...

My parents harm me.  They tell me it kills them that I'm so useless. It kills them slowly that Claudia 'did something with her life so far' and I haven't done anything. It apparently hurts them a lot to see me so worthless, when I could have been so much more. Potential. It damages them when my room is messy. Do they not know the mess is only the physical expression on my state and that covering it all up and patching the surface is the only shit I've been doing for a very long time and it hasn't helped me yet?

I'm lazy. I'm not lazy. I'm immature, but I don't think I am because I really, really can't do more than I am already doing, I'm trying my best, there's knots in my oesophagus to untie before I can eat properly again and be alive, I'm already trying...

I really wish I could scrub (till) my soul (is) clean.

I wish I didn't take vulgar showers. Though I guess I'm innocent about it in my own way.

I do see you more as a girl would, maybe. I don't know. It will take a while till I'll only see you as a friend, if I ever get there.

I wonder how I can be so irrationally selfish. To want to be the best at something for you. Irreplaceable. :)... To want to know you, and I want it so much that it becomes hard to always wish for this and to know I'm screwing myself over from the beginning.

I haven't learnt yet about how to give unconditionally. I don't think I'll ever stop trying to give to you, like I'll probably never deny Stefan help when he needs it, and an argument to Bogdan when he desperately needs to pick a fight with someone... :) I'll never stop loving Claudia even if she's such an annoying creature and I can't even begin to fathom why I even care anymore (we're just... entirely different fish). I love her. I'll give, and until I learn to trust that people are really in my bubbles or until someone teaches me that I should stop belittling my feeling side - really teach, not just order me to - ... I'll have to deal with my jealousy. Until I learn to trust. Until I'm ready to love, and understand so much that it sets me free from insecurities. Or die trying <-lame.

Being around you scares me. I need it. And it scares me. It's frightening because I might not learn to be independent before you get tired of me and leave. Because I might not learn to need less when you decide to offer me less because there'll be too little to pass around to everyone you'll have in your heart. Scary because there is potential for damage as great as there is potential for growth.

But I love you. Can I take my chances? You're a creature out of a fairy-tale for me. You shine (like Edward Cullen, hihihi). Yet you're human and have these sides that bug me to hell and back sometimes (read: something like 'annoy+hurt').

I'll try to grow enough by observing you till you decide to go away.

 

That is all.
Oh. And I love you, if you know what I mean ;)