The more I think about it, the more I realize, I barely write about experiences. Or rather, I do but they are more of incidents that happy-ending stories. I write about people, and encounters with them; I write about valued humans and relationships. I’ve always found them intriguing.
I think, the less of the special ones you have in life, the more you worry about losing them and the constant notion of people leaving never disappears. More importantly, being scared of actually telling loved ones that I’m afraid of losing them is the illness I have. Because that makes me vulnerable. And people never like vulnerable. I guess I like being liked by people.
I could potentially bind a book together with all the mediocre writings I have and call it “Tolerable Letters to my Tolerable Friends or Not-so” and sell it next to “Letters to Milena”. Not that I’m saying that my artistry is anywhere near that of Kafka’s but judging by the misery of both pieces, I would say they belong on the same shelf; just very different spectrums of that shelf… very.
If this is not confusing enough, I would like to add that I have a tendency of going back to my already mentioned, half-assed writings and just mourn, alongside with moon and a nice indie rock tune, pretending to be a character in a Sofia Coppola’s movie. This happens a lot and I believe it to be a core element of my personality – a capacity to be alone and empty, yet very surrounded and overflowing with emotion. Huh, an Aquarius.
And If I were to gather and read you all the things I have written about you, you would have either hated me or hated that you loved me.