I Wish I Could Tell You...

I wish I could tell you that I felt alone, but I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to phrase it so that you would understand, and so I scrapped it and threw away such an attempt so to kill possibilities of understating or overstating; being human, what I was feeling felt too important for something as seemingly insignificant as communication to hinder the emotional telepathy I was craving. Maybe I just thought you wouldn’t understand, and as pretentious and as condescending as that sounds, maybe, deep inside, I just lost hope for real emotional connection. At one point, perhaps, I concluded that this was all too ambitious, that the rational or irrational trains of thought that relentlessly travelled in my brain were too complex for me to utter into words. The translation seemed impossible, and even if it was possible, too draining of my soul’s energy for me to invest in it; was your attention worth it? Was I willing to give and expose so much of myself so to give you a chance to show affection? How much pleasure could I derive from your supposed compassion anyway? Was I just craving what I once found in you, something I would never find again? There were too many glitches in this system for me to feel hopeful, too many that I could think of; my careless words could choose words with incorrect connotations, connotations I did not mean, for I was inept and I was not a master of words (and to become a master of words would exhume too much of my soul’s energy—energy I didn’t have), I was human, you were human. Perhaps the notion of everyday words was twisted until I lost trust in them; they’ve proven themselves to often be too superficial to the extent that I couldn’t bear them anymore—that to hear actual meaning, a truth, within the words that we use to describe the unrecognizable lies, was too big a leap of faith for me to risk feeling demoralized about. Something about the way you phrased your words set me up for disaster, and the way there was such dissonance in your words and actions put me through disaster, to the extent that my trust in you faded away. Something about you made me lose faith in humanity, in words, and you’ll never know why, because I’ll never find the right words to explain it.

Perhaps I, coincidentally, found too much beauty in being alone. There was some twisted challenge about digging my own grave, seeing how much I can fall, something I once thought I had control over, then to realize I didn’t. Much, much more interesting than talking to you, texting you, or wasting more time with you waiting for something even the most slightly engaging moment to happen. The more I thoroughly and undoubtedly realized that you wouldn’t understand (and giving you the chance to understand wouldn’t be worth it), the more I ran away to my own thoughts, and there I had no company, but at least there I found no bullshit.

Now, if I told you right now that I felt like I was losing myself, how would you respond? Would you respond with all your heart; would you reciprocate the depth of emotional sincerity I was exposing to you? Would you feel like it was too demanding of me, unfair of me, to ask of such a pricey compensation for our friendship; would you question our friendship as to assess if delving into striving to find an equally sincere response would be worth it? Am I worth it? Is your time worth it?