stories to tell

 Why am I in love with you? Because you’re intelligent. You are smart and witty and in the chaos that I portray you seem to understand me. Reflecting on myself, I think I create that conversational chaos to keep people at a distance. A friendly way to keep to myself. But for those that easily see through my silliness (which to be honest is not that difficult), I end up admiring. The communication deepens and i feel at ease and relaxed and myself. I make friends this way.  But then I felt seen—deeper than I thought. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I wanted it to be true. Regardless, I fell in love. The more I got to know you, the more your intelligence shone. I fell deeply for your brain, for your words, for your thoughts.  I wish I could tell you this, but life is weird and messy and this kind of admiration is left for those consumption riddled 18th century writers. And I don’t want to be weird.

What would my younger self think of my life? I gaslit myself into thinking what I do is somehow a creative outlet. It’s not. I am just another cog in the dumb machine. And I think I’m too exhausted or boring to do anything that makes my life worth it to me. In my head my friendships keep slipping away. As time passes I keep alienating my relationships. Even those that I thought were the most important. From a community to loneliness. That could be the title of my autobiography.  I miss what potential I once had. I’m in my twilight having made nothing. The sands of time have no edge to erode away. Who would want to be around me? I am old and tired. Makes me boring. I need to find other old people. 

 I don’t know how to distinguish love. I am a failure of a human.