For this open blog I have decided to post a recently composed free-write (one which I originally posted in another public forum). I generally don't free write (I have an "open" journal, but it functions only as a forum to clarify claims I've made), and I generally don't open up in this way publicly. I think these tendencies are both symptomatic of the same ailment.

Anyway...

Without further ado:

This is not melodrama. This is not premeditated. This is not a poem. This is not how I play with language (I am much more playful than I imagine I will be here, I can assure you.). And, this will not be revised. Forgive the likely lack of style, coherent thought, and the potential spelling and grammatical errors henceforth. Follow the rhythm, I guess.

I feel in some ways how a convict must feel upon contemplating the attendant possibilities of parole. When I look out into the world – the world that exists outside of my immediate frame – everything seems to have transformed beyond recognition.

The objects are lonely and hardly interesting. An objective view is hard to imagine upon this realization – perhaps the postmodern perspective is not so naive or accommodating.

The people are not as I remember them, and my place in their world has long since been eliminated. I cannot recall ever really trusting anyone. I have watched people posture about as if so abstruse that they were impervious to the perception of the common person and become a bit perturbed with humanity. But, at this point I don't trust my own judgment. Pretension aside, I do not recognize honesty. Or maybe my intuition has beaten the odds, and I am justified in my skepticism.

My position has always been that of the counter puncher, to use a boxing analogy, and I think this likely stems from a severe and omnipresent insecurity that has plagued me for as long as I can remember. And, despite reassurance from those around me that my insecurities are unwarranted, I remain incredulous. I have been told...things; awarded...things; nominated for..."big" things. I do not buy them. I also do not know what to do with them. It is one thing to buy masses of new sh*t; it is quite another to use all that new sh*t effectively (and some sh*t you often never use at all – hello back of the closet). As such, I am perhaps a bit overwhelmed with and a bit suspicious of these newfound possibilities.

But, mostly I am scared.

Beyond this, though, I find myself slowly drifting away from everything I seek. I'm handcuffed in my efforts to resist this tangential path, and for it I am even more scared.

I can gaze into the great expanses of conceptual mystery and revert to reclusive clemency. I can lie comfortably beneath figurative quilts of cowardice. Or, I can dive blindly and doggedly so deep into mysterious boondocks.

I think, though, that the greatest threat to my happiness is reflected, quite ominously in fact, in this text. The pensiveness, these worries, and the forum within which I've presented them I think disclose a fact of my existence that perhaps has always laid in solitude, awaiting revelation.

I am deathly afraid of intimacy while constantly yearning for it.

Discussion of and catharsis for my "issues" are better suited for an intimate setting, with a confidant, not a community of strangers. Yet, here I am disclosing my fears, albeit in a slightly inaccessible manner.

What does this mean?

That confidant with whom I might seek solace – that confidant does not exist. I am alone in more ways than one, yet in the most salient and common way, I appear to have company. This is my confession, though, and so I should probably be completely honest. I am not accompanied – I am alone, and have been since the day I was convinced of my inadequacy. Fifteen years later, I remain in seclusion. As a practical matter, I have, maybe, three friends, and one with whom I would almost entrust my life. Perhaps, I have a narrow view of what constitutes a friend, but I think I'll stick with it.

I suppose that defining moment in my life has yet to occur; the moment where I recognize the error in my temperament. I long for this moment. This moment would pave the way for a life without perpetual fear. I suppose several beers (daily) might do the same, and that could not be more ironic.

I await the moment when I am convinced of my adequacy, but until then...

I am scared.

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