Molding mood.
What molds it?
I haven't written recently.
But today I tried to dance. My body was reluctant. It observed others, and wanted to go in. It tried. But the music.... ahh the music was not. Cooperative. It felt like a bland hum. Even when beat came on, it felt dull. Slow, cheesy. My insides begged the music to rise to the occasion. But no. It was unexciting. My body did not deem it worthy. So I sat down, and tried to resonate with the beat coming in.
But even after Melissa encouraged me to dance, it still felt artificial. We danced a little, but my body did not find a pleasant sync. It... ground through the whole time I asked it to dance, but I barely enjoyed any of it. Fake... forced... I sat down. Then I tried again, then sat down again. And again. And about two or three more times.
The last parts had slightly better beats, but by that time my body was too disappointed to continue. My body felt sad, depressed, let down. It was reminded of past sad times. Of times when I liked a girl to splinters and wanted to dance with her, but neither did she want to dance with me, nor did I have any concept nor technique to do so. Or just to talk to her. Of times of rejection - when I wanted to spend time with a girl, I wanted to hug her, kiss her, and she would barely even tolerate my eye contact. Of my college attempts to reset my high school deserted social pattern with no success. Of times when I was asked for help on classes by a girl, and my heart would jump with such excitement, would create future worlds in an instant, and my whole self would devote to helping her, before finding that all she offered back was hurried gratitude. I always had a desire to help, a healthy layer of altruism that coated my shy, estranged need for care. A bitter seed I would never reveal. Not to others, to avoid showing myself as pathetic. Not to myself, for its taste would sting my face and eyes, and shed my useless tears.
I remembered the lonely afternoons at home, climbing the walls and the roof, trying to get as far away as possible from anyone else, painfully desperate for a private space to cry out loud. I remembered my awkward walks across and around so many dance floors, past so many attractive girls, when the music actually invaded my body but my shame would not allow it to dance. Self-restrained desires, lengthy remorse, helplessness about everything that seemed to matter. I felt sad and isolated again.
I had not felt thus in some time now. I'd gone at least a solid 18 months without feeling this. 6 months I received care and attention from a person, then 8 more months from another. Real care, happy times. But not lasting. That gets into another story. Then 4 more months, during which I focused on work, trips, and a few small transitions.
I had half-assumed that after receiving as much continuous care as this, my past sadnesses would've diminished, or even disappeared. And it has been so long now - I thought that time had allowed me to accept, heal, and move on. Alas, feelings do not obey reason. They remember all too well, and it seems that, unless there are emotional experiences very different from the ones I've already experienced in my 30+ years, time will sporadically bring me these episodes from time to time, always reminding me that my adolescence was awkward, painful, socially curtailed, and that I will never have the chance to go back and make it better. I will always keep the memory of a time of wasted potential, when I could've developed my self in drastically better manners, in ways that would not leave me aching to know, even now, how to properly establish a meaningful rapport with someone, anyone, even with people with whom I seem to get along amazingly. In ways that would allow me to speak up my feelings raw, even if only to close friends, instead of having to first coat them in thick, cold layers of objectivity. In ways that would perhaps now allow me to have *some* friends close to me. In ways in which perhaps I would prefer to keep on living every day with exciting goals, happy to build and create something, instead of always eventually coming back to the feeling that my life is already screwed up and cannot be fixed, despite the material evidence to the contrary (feelings do not obey reason), and secretly hoping that a soon, quick, and painless death would befall me and get me out of this freaking mess.
But I have you, words. I had missed you.
What say you?
What I feel.
Thank you.
What molds it?
I haven't written recently.
But today I tried to dance. My body was reluctant. It observed others, and wanted to go in. It tried. But the music.... ahh the music was not. Cooperative. It felt like a bland hum. Even when beat came on, it felt dull. Slow, cheesy. My insides begged the music to rise to the occasion. But no. It was unexciting. My body did not deem it worthy. So I sat down, and tried to resonate with the beat coming in.
But even after Melissa encouraged me to dance, it still felt artificial. We danced a little, but my body did not find a pleasant sync. It... ground through the whole time I asked it to dance, but I barely enjoyed any of it. Fake... forced... I sat down. Then I tried again, then sat down again. And again. And about two or three more times.
The last parts had slightly better beats, but by that time my body was too disappointed to continue. My body felt sad, depressed, let down. It was reminded of past sad times. Of times when I liked a girl to splinters and wanted to dance with her, but neither did she want to dance with me, nor did I have any concept nor technique to do so. Or just to talk to her. Of times of rejection - when I wanted to spend time with a girl, I wanted to hug her, kiss her, and she would barely even tolerate my eye contact. Of my college attempts to reset my high school deserted social pattern with no success. Of times when I was asked for help on classes by a girl, and my heart would jump with such excitement, would create future worlds in an instant, and my whole self would devote to helping her, before finding that all she offered back was hurried gratitude. I always had a desire to help, a healthy layer of altruism that coated my shy, estranged need for care. A bitter seed I would never reveal. Not to others, to avoid showing myself as pathetic. Not to myself, for its taste would sting my face and eyes, and shed my useless tears.
I remembered the lonely afternoons at home, climbing the walls and the roof, trying to get as far away as possible from anyone else, painfully desperate for a private space to cry out loud. I remembered my awkward walks across and around so many dance floors, past so many attractive girls, when the music actually invaded my body but my shame would not allow it to dance. Self-restrained desires, lengthy remorse, helplessness about everything that seemed to matter. I felt sad and isolated again.
I had not felt thus in some time now. I'd gone at least a solid 18 months without feeling this. 6 months I received care and attention from a person, then 8 more months from another. Real care, happy times. But not lasting. That gets into another story. Then 4 more months, during which I focused on work, trips, and a few small transitions.
I had half-assumed that after receiving as much continuous care as this, my past sadnesses would've diminished, or even disappeared. And it has been so long now - I thought that time had allowed me to accept, heal, and move on. Alas, feelings do not obey reason. They remember all too well, and it seems that, unless there are emotional experiences very different from the ones I've already experienced in my 30+ years, time will sporadically bring me these episodes from time to time, always reminding me that my adolescence was awkward, painful, socially curtailed, and that I will never have the chance to go back and make it better. I will always keep the memory of a time of wasted potential, when I could've developed my self in drastically better manners, in ways that would not leave me aching to know, even now, how to properly establish a meaningful rapport with someone, anyone, even with people with whom I seem to get along amazingly. In ways that would allow me to speak up my feelings raw, even if only to close friends, instead of having to first coat them in thick, cold layers of objectivity. In ways that would perhaps now allow me to have *some* friends close to me. In ways in which perhaps I would prefer to keep on living every day with exciting goals, happy to build and create something, instead of always eventually coming back to the feeling that my life is already screwed up and cannot be fixed, despite the material evidence to the contrary (feelings do not obey reason), and secretly hoping that a soon, quick, and painless death would befall me and get me out of this freaking mess.
But I have you, words. I had missed you.
What say you?
What I feel.
Thank you.
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