Sometimes I have too many feelings, Friends. Just all of the fucking feelings, like a bowl full of volatile liquid lodged behind my sternum, bumping up against my bruised and beating heart.
Dramatic, I know, but it really feels like that. And I really am that dramatic, too, so…
Times like this I find myself wanting to isolate, to be alone. To come and go just as I please–not planning anything and not being held too tightly to my word. Because who knows how I may feel in the moment? I am fickle as fuck, and erratic, and tired. And I want to be good to myself right now, to put my own well-being before my obligations.
Add “selfish” to that list of core characteristics, I guess.
It’s just that…
There are a lot, a lot of people in the world, each with their own problems, struggles, hopes, and worries. Some days I swear I can feel them all, feel their need and their ache, pressing in on me through my thin-as-tissue skin.
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation” (Henry David Thoreau), and I bruise easily.
I want simplicity, to take a step back. I want to stay home, read books, play music, write on paper, go to the coffee shop, type on my laptop. Have a nap. Go for a long run. Follow my moods and my inspiration, and if anyone wants to join me, they’re welcome, of course.
But I won’t change my plans for them, and when they invite me out and about, I should say “maybe,” instead of saying “yes” and then later having to say “I’m sorry.”
I have been so filled up with “I’m sorry”s of late, and I can’t apologize anymore, because what I am doing is not meant to hurt anyone.
What I am doing is trying my very best to figure it out. Just like you, and them, and all the other masses of men.