do you love me: a prose

I.

I’m a dreamer. The most hard-nosed, skeptical one out there, but my gift is not for judging. My gift is for perceiving.

You see, I dream a lot actually. In the daytime, there’ll be another movie playing in my mind, overlaying the reality going on in front of me. I’ll dream of a worse tomorrow, or a better one.

It’s all rooted in some sort of sensory world though.

Existing within me is an archive of every experience I’ve ever had funneling through my brain at all times. Filtering what I see for me. Through that archive, I can fire off the wittiest of references, draw up instantly the most fitting of metaphors, find out the most obscure of parallel events I once read if need be —

Along with that, you can spin a flurry of, “What ifs?” You can be a little more paranoid, based on your past experiences, or a little more hopeful, based on your past experiences. Don’t let either control you.

I tattooed my wrist in commemoration of the beauty that is my messed up, or just messy, mind. We always stand at the intersection of predestination and free will — that actually exists in our minds. We can choose to act on the memories that hurt, or the possibilities that heal.

Some have called me delusional with my head in the clouds. Some laughed.

Others have said I am psychic, and my gift for piercing through illusions to the heart of matters could save the world someday.

Maybe it already is saving it, even rarer others say —

I think they’re all right.

****

II.

I often think I am doomed to just… keep giving. And giving. And giving

I give because I have a small leak in my bucket, so it could never hold enough water, so to keep it occupied, I just keep shoveling that good stuff into others’ mouths and hearts.

Why do you like me? I ask people meekly when I want to receive. When I want something in return, more than just an existential talk on a mundane topic.

They’re often surprised, start a little, because I don’t ask for validation like that. I’m not that kind of girl who fishes for compliments. What’s changed?

It’s a break in a poker face of being very, very optimistic and very, very enthusiastic. Sometimes I can fool myself into thinking I’ve completely managed my anxiety well.

But the reality is — my bubbliness is just a side effect of knowing more than others. I’m the ‘strong one’ who has it all, and yet what I seek, the little I do, is never enough.

Others praise my kindness, and then exploit it.

With not knowing ‘why’ anyone cares — simply having to trust in ‘I just do’ — that’s no longer enough. Simply being told you have impact is no longer enough. Rationalizing to yourself that you have impact isn’t enough.

You know why compliments get rejected? Because they’re not expansive enough. The person rejecting the compliment is avoiding that urge to ask why, why do you think that, please, please tell me more.

Sometimes I’m afraid if I ask for one compliment, I’ll never be able to stop asking.

I’ve concluded that like every fucking day, everyone needs an entire soliloquy to stay emotionally afloat. I’ve never seen people not receive a long letter well.

If you can’t float , I’ll turn into the water baby. I’ll turn your toxic world into a big, beautiful, swimming pool that is easy to relax in…

****

III.

Sometimes in my head, I imagine someone giving me my own soliloquy. I imagine someone taking the time to write me a letter about reasons they love me. About reasons they care. A fantasy, I tell myself, that maybe if I live for long enough I’ll get to hear that.

I have no guarantee I ever will, but I also have no guarantee I ever won’t. Life is about living in those grey spots.

The biggest compliment I ever heard was, you inspire me. Holy fuck, I thought to myself days, weeks, months now years after. To know that I inspire someone. What does that mean? It means that perhaps, the words I say and put into the world touched the deepest depths of their souls. It means that perhaps, simply my existence itself was beautiful enough to give someone hope to keep churning. That perhaps, of the darkest of dawns, they derived meaning from the things I’d said?

I never inspired my mother. She would hold me at mild arm’s length, scared she’d raised a daughter destined to never be happy, doomed, she would cry, to never be an ordinary woman with a simple life. Nothing else would ever be enough, she insisted.

Sometimes some of my friends do that too.

Someone mentioned I seem lonely the other day to a friend. They scoffed and said they’re wrong. I cringe because my public persona is very, very carefully tailored.

They stare when I suddenly burst into tears at the state of the world. Tears that I can’t fix everything, though I try. They ask why what I have isn’t enough, even for now.

If only they could understand that it’s not enough if the world doesn’t have enough. When one person feels pain, I feel it echoed in my very soul. That legions and oceans and decades and generations of others’ grief, trauma, fear, hopelessness, desperation  is reverberating in that person’s experience — which is part of mine. The human experience.

I can replay every single moment I felt pain — which is why when something or someone hurts me, I never stay angry at the cause. I just trace it back to the first time my inner child felt that pain, and I stay with it til my older self can comfort it.

It’s all locked up in an inner box in my soul, though. It’s released when I write, when I somehow black out and turn my brain off and continue pouring myself.

****

IV.

Echoed on the pages of this blog is a window into my very soul, my very spirit. I hope to be immortalized as one of the voices of our generation some day, whether that’s in 2 years or 200 years.

For it would then maybe bring some relief to the fact that I feel the pain of our generation every, single day. Every single status, picture, link, thought, meme that is posted, I can feel the hurt you felt. Every single smiling picture I can picture the longing you convey.

So I pour it out, after it synthesizes in me.  I craft messages that remind you you all matter, and I send them out and expect nothing in return.

I squeeze my eyes shut and I pray, by crying. On my knees every day. I cry, sobbing, at how much love and hope I hold.

I once read that our tears are prayers, that each individual drop is different. I always let them fall, I never fight them, I let them as in friends as the rest of humanity rejects those feelings —

So every day I try to cry enough that other people will feel love that day.

****

In between all of the perceiving and the magic in my head, I lose track of who I am when I wake up.

I blink. And when I slowly start to realize, not many others see this magic, I begin to feel more lonely…

And I also begin to feel more hope whenever I’m shown a smidgeon of a hint that someone else feels it too.

****

V.

All I long for is connection. It’s not often voiced, but sometimes, if you even level me a gaze for a second longer, if you simply touch my back, if you say, “Thank you,” or even throw your head back and laugh — I can somehow, perhaps psychically but definitely joyfully, feel your soul reaching out to mine. Stroking my hair, touching my cheek, kissing my mouth, even. And what’s leftover in what I feel, after the vision fades, is a burning in my chest.

I wish you felt that burn too.

I don’t know if you wake up in the middle of the goddamn night sweating your face off with these vivid dreams, if the pain builds so much that sometimes all you can do is silently scream at how the visions bore in, such that you must go to the bathroom and let the sensation of spiritual connection take over your body

But I hope, wherever you are, that you’ve found some sort of comfort in it a faraway, psychic connection. That you use the strength to wake up, and you can consciously remind yourself what you got up for that day, that you can consciously understand there is a such thing as a reward for a better future whatever that may be, and you can consciously accept that there are some people who can be trusted to love you.

****

VI.

I love you. So much that it baffles me beyond reason. But it would make no sense to say it, when you have never even shown you know any of this

all I know is, I love you. I never get to speak to you, but I at least remember I love you enough to have it put it out there — maybe never directly to your face – but maybe just enough for you to be randomly magnetically thrust into that love — that a bout of luck is because you feel the after effects of love, enough for you to remember you are unconditionally loved, at my own validation’s expense.

You don’t have a choice in the matter. There’s nothing you could do to stop the flow. I love you, whether it is in silence every night as I send good vibes, or whether it is in an actual real-world gesture or interaction, rare as they come for the both of us, valuable as they can be whenever they’re there.

I’m not just hungry anymore. I’m so fucking thirsty and crazy, and only human, yet for every ounce of anger and sadness, there is 5000 ounces more of love. The love always wins out over the fear… and I know because I let it. I don’t care if it’s logical or not. Logical can be the mask I wear in the daytime. In the night time, let’s make spiritual love baby.

Because I want to make real love. Because seeing you, in all your manly, quiet, mysterious alluring glory, sends sensations up and down my spine, as if your mere presence can make all of time and space stop.

All I can replay in my head while carrying on a casual conversation is your fingers stroking my stomach, your mouth on my neck, the warmth of your breath when you held me, whichever way was surely the most intimate, almost more than I could handle —

I’d pay all the money in the world to ever, ever ever be able to say this to your face. For you to let me in enough to tell me you even would want to hear this ever said to your face, or if you’re doing fine ambling along without it.

I’d pay a lot of money too, I must admit, for you to ever say anything to my face.

For you to lay me down, a joyful grin on your face again the way it was those many moons again, and whispering my name like it was your greatest treasure again until I couldn’t breathe —

Do you love me?

I want to know. I want to know so bad. I want to know if it was all real, or if my body is lying to me. But how could my body be lying to me, when whenever it’s near you, all it can feel is blinded by love for you.

Do you love it back? Do you  — could you even — love me?

People can laugh at that Drake song, but it’s because they’re afraid to relate to that. How many times have we in our lives wanted to know the answer, and never gotten to?

To even get a few sentences… with a gaze that can level me like no other… would be enough for all of the fucking ages. Because just as I feel pain echoed in every thing, I also feel love echoed in every thing.

If you tried to put all your feeling into those few sentences, squeezed them out even a little bit more, and could maintain eye contact while doing it… it’d get through to me. It’d get through to me, even as it has already. I saw — what was to me, perhaps, an indication of — a great well of feeling. A great fucking vat of love. Or was it there?

****

It’s like when it’s about to rain, and you feel a few drops. You see the sky darkening a little. But you’re not sure if there’ll ever be an outpour, or if the clouds decided to drift away, and maybe the love won’t rain down after all.

But I’ll still never stop giving it out, a fountain of eternal caring even with no rain to sustain

Cheesy as this bullshit is, it’s not bullshit to me.

But as it may be to the rest of the world — it will remain here in silence for a good while. Unless someone wants to unearth this, maybe years from now, and ever take action to scream

Look at this girl

Look at her

She matters so much to me

She’s the reason I’m alive

She’s my little guardian angel for being such a light

Hahahaha, she’s no fool for caring

She’s the bravest hero of them all

I’m coming back for her. I want her so much I can’t see anyone else

And this time baby… I have enough money to pay you bac-

someday

****

VII.

But what happens when you’re asked to embrace the world before you with no prior experiences to thread your perception with?

I sometimes also dream in the night.

Last night, I dreamt the entire fucking world collapsed and I had to watch.

Mountains crumbled. Oceans roared. Trees fell over. Buildings collapsed. Everyone screamed — everyone, that is me.

It was all provoked by a singular event.

I ran up to a place — a sacred one — a building, with a singular lit sign.

I walked inside, and I whimpered, looking at the cookie jar in the corner. Not knowing what to do. Not knowing if the business was even open. But I knew what I had to do.

I went up to the bar on the inside, next to the cookie jar. The dimly lit booths — all empty. No one was sitting.

Only one person was bartending, wiping the counters down with a long, lanky practiced hand.

He gazed at me curiously as I came up to him. I was frozen. I didn’t know what was going on.

I was already in the restaurant, but I hadn’t asked to be seated.

I opened my mouth. I asked… with all the fear welling up inside me… if I could sit.

More specifically, I asked if there was room for me and all of my feelings in here. I asked if it was okay that I take up space.

….Then everything just fell in. The room shook. Structures I’d thought were existent turned to dust.

The bar, the cookie jar, the seats, the man —

All gone.

But he never answered.

Just like in real life — it was just silent. I didn’t know if I could sit, which might as well have been a no. And that — that was what really made me collapse, and why I’d sworn myself it would not be okay to ask for validation, ever — unless I could guarantee non-silence.

****

VIII.

Have you ever been waiting for a train

A train… as they say in Inception 

A train that will take you far away.

You know where you hope the train will take you, but you can’t know for sure.

Yet it doesn’t matter. Now, tell me why?

“Because we’ll be together!”

But you don’t know that. This is a train you’re not sure is coming, until you wonder if you’re even waiting or if you’ve been wasting time. And there’s nothing to make it worth it no knowledge, no mattering, only.. hope.

That’s me right now. Checking the clock, anxiously waiting for signs of life, wondering if there will ever be respite. Wondering if we’ll be together, and wondering if there will ever be a change, or if I’m doomed to waiting on a dream that will never come

Nevertheless, I wait. In case you’re just around the corner.

I jump on board other endeavors, other goals to carry out when I’m not feeling the burn rip through all of me.

****

I’m scared as fuck that in a few weeks, you’ll see right through me

And it means I’ll either be seen

Or be invisible

And I don’t know if I want to find out what the answer is

Because all I want is an apology, two words,

And then the greatest gift would be for you to see me again.

See all of me,

See what I wish you could see, beneath all the layers

kiss my hidden tattoo

and parts

again,

dance with me in sync the way we aren’t in the cyber, waking, texting social media world but are when we’re able to physically be there

and look at me like you have me, like I’m all yours, like you whispered that night,

and which I wonder about still when I get a little lonelier

So my defense mechanism is to keep loving you and hopefully, hopefully the action itself will fortify me if I ever find out you don’t love me back

 

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