dear diary: pointless, undeveloped thoughts

12 03 2014

I am a very good observer of people.  Women I have dated have loved me because I could understand them, oftentimes better than they could, which leads to crowning insight or indignant rejection.  You know how good it feels to believe that someone really understands you?  I think that’s an addictive feeling.  It feels so good that people lose sight of the fact that they need to really understand their partner that way too.  I don’t know if I can imagine it really going both ways.  Maybe I can.  Maybe I’ve experienced that once.  For a while.  But some things aren’t meant to last.  And the problem with having that with someone is that it is incredibly painful to lose it. 

I like to understand myself as well.  But most people don’t really want to understand me.  To be fair, it’s not just me.  People don’t usually want to understand other people—everyone’s in it to understand themselves, which is reasonable.  It’s a full-time occupation.  But I don’t have patience for people who want help understanding themselves and aren’t willing to help me in unraveling the mystery of myself. 

I don’t think anyone’s a mystery.  It’s pretty easy to see them outside of their time and space, because everyone is born wanting the exact same thing.  It’s usually pretty simple to recognize the events in their lives that helped them learn to react certain ways to things.  It’s usually to fit in, or to revolt against something they find negative, or to gain something they’re convinced they need. 

I used to write and come to conclusions.  Now I just write because I don’t really understand.  I don’t really understand how we could all want the same thing but all feel so separate and alone.  I don’t understand how I have an instinct to objectify people and see how doing so would gain me things I think I want, but really it’s not in my heart to act on those instincts, because I know better than to treat someone else in a way that I wouldn’t want to be.  I don’t understand how others do it.  I pity them and I envy their gain.  I don’t understand how I can do both.  I don’t understand why I have to be in two different pieces but in the same wrapper. 

I think I’m better than many people.  I wish I didn’t.  In my heart, I know we’re all equally pitiful and wonderful.  I think I see it all better, and I think I’m better than people who don’t.  But really, I don’t see myself as anything that great.  I lack willpower and the creativity of my younger days.  I’m folding my arms and letting what’s left slip through my fingers because I’m bitter that it’s not as much as it used to be.  I’m disappointed that the promise has been replaced with memory of having promise, also energy, also time.  I’m hardening into whatever I am these days.  When I could have been anything, I explored.  I never chose.  Now I’m becoming, still never have chosen.  I don’t regret never having chosen though.  There’s still nothing in particular I would choose for myself. 

Maybe just to understand, and to accept, and to do.