A Love Letter To The Boy I Have Yet To Meet

romantic
Sometimes such a yearning overtakes me for an understanding soul, in the flesh and by my side, that I feel as if I might split apart from the agony.

In truth, no matter how much I comfort myself with writing and books, I am lonely, yet I do not crave the company of just any person; instead, I yearn for someone who I do not know yet, who exists, somewhere, out in that world. A young man, reserved and sensitive, quirky and strange, and if the two of us were to meet umbrellas would start waddling upside down along the pavement to catch the rain.

One of my most favourite movies in the world is Amelie, a story of an introverted, inhibited young woman and her journey towards finding love. It is simply the most wonderful movie, marvelously quirky and just plain lovely, and the protagonist is someone who I can relate to utterly. Luckily for her, in the end, she does find love, though there are many tears and hardships along the way. The movie itself is a phantasmagoria of delightful creativity and music that flows like the bumpy back of an elegant caterpillar.

As for myself, well, I do not know if I will ever meet someone strange and quirky enough to see beyond my barriers into the fragilely excited core of me, and perhaps they live on the other side of the globe and our paths will never cross. But the possibility of being with someone like that, who understands, who feels keenly and suffers, beckons agonizingly, a glint of gold in the darkness just out of reach.

Together, the two of us, I am sure, would act like children, sitting side-by-side in the corner of the library amid piles of books, looking up from our novels now and then to smile at each other. Dancing together in the park, and conjuring up all sorts of quirky theories regarding the flowers and the trees; you know the trees have eyes and noses, don’t you, in their knotty bark? They see us, the leaves rustling quiet secrets. If we check every flower, perhaps we shall find a fairy nestled on the pollen centre of one of them. Oh, do let us climb this tree; it looks exactly like The Magic Faraway Tree in the books by Enid Blyton; perhaps, just a few branches up, live Silky and Moon Face, and at the very top a delightful world for us to explore.

We could lie side-by-side in bed, facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes and say “Hello. You’re Conscious.” “Hello. I know.” “Look at us, the universe staring at itself, a series of mirrors looking into mirrors.” “I know.” And then we would smile. At night we could lie down on the grass beneath the stars and revel in the poetry of the universe, or not do anything at all except be and exist, two organisms in the company of one another, for a little while.

And all the marvelous shades of the soul, of quiet poetry and yearning, the beauty of a discarded shoe left on the sidewalk, a crumbling and ruined house, we would share with one another, two children laughing in sheer wonder at the bittersweet beauty of being alive.

Of course, we would live in a cottage somewhere, with myriad cats and an immense library, spend our days creating art and watching things, stuffing our eyes with wonder, watching everything and then turning to the other and smiling and kissing and hugging and loving and living and dreaming, forever and ever. Nothing would go unnoticed; not the pleasure of a crackling fireplace by an armchair, or two humans in love laughing with each other, or a single glint of sunlight between two interlocking branches weaving in the wind.

Do you exist, somewhere, out there?

I hope you do.

I will tell myself I am not waiting for you, as one, according to society, does not need other people to feel complete, and must work on own self-esteem and happiness, but I miss you, dearly, have missed you all my life. I love you, even without meeting you.

I believe you are out there, and yearning for me too.

If we do not end up meeting (and I try not to be too pessimistic, but life has disappointed so often that I do not know what to believe in or hope for sometimes except making the best use of the present moment) in this life, I will be satisfied with my books and writing, the latter of which might touch another kindred spirit across the reaches of time and space.

I love you. I will love you until the day I die, even if you never materialize, even if I am simply a lonely, deluded, silly girl. I love you, because I love life, because I love love, because I love existing and feeling, and I would so want someone to share it all with. I miss you. I do.

Say you miss me too.

A Poem. Of Sorts.

Outside

Sometimes, you are afraid. Of lots of things.

You are afraid others know things you do not.

You are afraid of being left behind.

You are afraid of seeing yourself through the eyes of others.

In life, you always feel as if you are some sort of street urchin, besmirched and dropping food in gutters. Panting, you scramble to pick up the scraps, now sodden and dirty. They stain your fingers as you pick them up. There is such a shame in experiencing misfortune beneath the gaze of others. They see you fall and grovel, and secretly they are glad that it is not them. You hate their secret gladness.

You feel gazes too acutely. They feel like needles. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but sometimes there are curtains, closing them, and sometimes monsters writhe in dark shadows and glints of teeth behind the glass.

This world is nothing but tentacles and teeth, mindlessly gnashing and squirming. You are afraid to face it. You see the monster, lurking behind the buildings and shops, behind the walking people and trees, an immense shadow, and you are afraid to see it when no-one else does. It sees you, too. And it smiles, a big, slobbery smile of chunky teeth.

Sometimes you just want to crawl into a handbag. Handbags are dark and small, concerned with little and safe things, lipsticks and keys and the other bits and pieces of our lives. You would like to curl up in there, and never come out, living on bubblegum and chocolate until you’re sick, staring at your own reflection in the compact mirror.

Hugging walls is another specialty of yours. Walls feel so very solid, and you feel so very fragmented, the atoms making you up ready to fly apart in all directions at any moment, like a spray of paint. Only thing is, the walls never hug back. You can pretend they are hugging back. You can pretend lots of things. But the wall is hard and cold, and your tears glisten on it like snail trails.

There is this heart, this flesh, this sinew, this twist of muscle, this leveraged movement of bone, shifting, pumping, squelching, there is this thing that is you. You know the components, each and every one, but together, as a whole, you do not know what you are. The room in your brain is dark, so dark your eyes do not even need curtains to hide anything, because there is nothing to see.

So. There are flowers and children. There are kisses and hugs. There are hands extended in help, and smiles stretching faces. There is laughter. Is that enough? Is it all just make-up painted on the world, and beneath it the skin is pockmarked and sagging, very old but not very wise?

Like everyone, you want so many things. Damn those clouds that do not twine around your finger like candyfloss when you try to pluck at them. Damn that moon, who never lies flat in your palm like a CD, a promise of lunar music, owned and possessed. Damn those stars, who wink at you like coquettes but never come close enough for you to see them properly. Damn those people, who are not puppets, who are strung on veins rather than strings, whose hearts pump rather than clack.

You want the person to pop his head around the backdrop of the stage and say, “Here, you take over for a minute, hold this sky, this earth, this life, will ya, darlin’? Make sure the sun keeps shining, that lovely little spotlight, or none of the actors will be able to see a thing.” Backstage, there is darkness, hushed whispers. Mysterious things. If only we could be a part of that, instead of the act.

Is there a coffin anywhere? You ask. Please. I would like to lie down in a coffin, but don’t nail in the lid, because I’m not dead, I just want to lie there, feeling dead.

You see, there are things you want to be, and all of them involve shrinking. You would like to sleep inside the closed bud of a flower, or cling to the string of a red balloon floating up into the sky, or on the end of a dandelion blown by the wind, or use a book page as a blanket, or sit in a keyhole. That way, the monster can’t find you. You are too small. It would be like a cat trying to catch a microbe.

Also, you would like to offer your heart to someone, hold it out in your hand, red and mushy like spoiled fruit. You draw your cardigan tighter around yourself to hide the bleeding hole in your chest. You wince at the drops of blood by your feet, hoping they do not notice. Yes, I know, it’s not very attractive, is it? Lots of blood and guts and purplish veins. But I promise it is good. Very nutritious. Lots of iron, soft muscle, so soft. Yum, yum.

There is nothing you can do to hide from the monster, be it shrinking or growing, hiding or facing, chopping yourself up into messy pieces or separating each component carefully, finger and heart and skull and liver, all neatly laid out on a surgical table. Either way, it will come for you, and it will eat you.

And then those windows will shatter. Crack. And you will look out upon a refracted world.

What This INFP Thinks Of Marriage

rings
So. I think. A lot. Sometimes too much, and to my own detriment, but we are not delving into that right now.

And lately, for some inexplicable reason, I have been dwelling a great deal on children and marriage, neither of which, being still rather young, are in the offing yet for me. This however did not stop me from staying awake for far longer than I should have, musing and envisioning.

It’s a hefty issue, one which everyone seems divided upon, especially women. Some think that marriage is a sacred unit, an institution that will bring fulfilment and joy, rooted in both tradition and biology. Others are of the opinion that it is a waste of time, hinders careers, is a harbinger of stress and arguments – after all, didn’t you know that 50% of marriages end in divorce? Do you want to sacrifice free time and good sleep at the altar of matrimony? Not to mention that lovely figure?

Barring the fact that I care little if my figure is a bit bulgy about the edges, these are all valid concerns which I am sure every woman has weighed in their own minds. At first, being an INFP rather than, say, an analytical INTJ, it seemed like a no-brainer; after all, we’re known as the sweet little lovebirds of the MBTI world, and I, for one, can think of few things more satisfying than engaging a child in imaginative play (being pretty much a little kid on the inside myself) and teaching them about the world and the meaning of life. In fact, not to tout my own horn, but I think INFPs, gentle souls that we are, would make ideal parents.

Thus, marriage seems like the natural progression of such inclinations, doesn’t it? It provides stability, which our scatterbrained minds need plenty of. It provides romance, which we crave like air. It has the possibility to provide children, whom we adore. All in all, very good stuff. But what needs to also enter the equation are individual experiences, problems, hopes and desires, all things that cannot be entirely encapsulated by four letters.

When it comes down to it, even INFPs have to face some forms of reality; and sometimes, with our imaginations, it’s easier to conjure these realities. For one, I am well aware of the kind of commitment marriage entails, and cannot imagine anything more horrifying that being stuck with someone who I does not understand me and I care little for. Although I know it is unhealthy, I also run from conflict like it’s the plague – hardly a good trait to have in a situation where two people may come into conflict on a daily basis. The romantic ideal is a far cry from the daily reality of living with someone.

But these are only surface issues; deep down, like many people, I have problems with self-esteem, in that I cannot imagine why any sane person would want to spend the rest of their life with me. This is not only because I have Asperger’s (which does not mean I am “crazy” or anything) or suffer from social anxiety, or any other psychological problems, though they do contribute.

To be honest, and I’m not sure if this is because I am only young, I feel unattractive a good deal of the time. I am the girl who sits at the back of the bus or tries to hide her face behind a curtain of hair. Who hides in the library so she doesn’t have to talk to people, and then leaves when the library gets busy. Also, being extremely introverted and having few people in my life, if any, who appreciate my deeper thoughts and inner world, I wonder if there is anyone out there for someone who feels so strange and defective.

In the end, it comes down to fear.

I am afraid of not measuring up. I am afraid of being too inhibited to talk to the right person when I do meet him. I am afraid of giving others a chance. I am afraid of my own darkness: the stress that often turns into anger, my tendency to get mopey, to be pessimistic and disheartened. High sociability and an easygoing, optimistic attitude have been conditioned into us as desirable traits. Who on earth, I think to myself, would want to spend time with a severely anxious, occasionally depressive and eccentric young lady who loves books more than family, cats more than people?

Sure, there is someone out there for everyone. Perhaps for me it is a shy, young musician who is socially awkward enough not to find me an object of ridicule. Or maybe not, as though I’m sure he would be a very lovely young man, I continually find myself drawn towards more gregarious and grounded types, most of whom would want nothing to do with me. It is a confusing concoction of knowing who would be good for me, yet not being attracted to them.

Secretly I loathe the reality of anything – meaning, I’d rather sit here and contemplate the wonders of marriage without ever experiencing it. Because the truth is I know what it will be like: just like any other day, any other reality, another human being who orbits around the planet of Me, the two spheres sometimes touching, sometimes not. It’s one of the reasons I idealize people from afar and never approach them. I tell myself it’s because I’m scared of rejection, but that’s not wholly the truth; I’m also subconsciously resistant to shattering the illusion. Let them stay beautiful and perfect. Let it all stay beautiful and perfect in my mind.

Would I be unhappy if I spent the rest of my life “alone”? Not really – I’d have my art and books, my cats. But a partner is one of those things that’s just nice to have, someone to hug at the end of the day and face the world with anew the next morning. And, well, children are pretty adorable, and the thought of reading them bedtime stories – or even books I write! – makes me want to die of happiness.

So, I guess the answer to what I think of marriage, as with most areas of life, is: I don’t know. No-one does, really. We take it day by day, the bitter medicine of reality tempered by sweet doses of hope and love. Maybe I’m too psychologically impaired to leave the house and date! Maybe there is another quirky somebody out there perfect for me, and we’ll live in a library masquerading as a house with a squadron of kitties. Or maybe I will dream of the perfect love for the rest of my life until the day I die.

No matter what happens, I hope to be happy with who am, take pleasure in the small joys of life, and share with the world the art I create. Our lives are big, important businesses only to ourselves, and only we have the power to bring about our own happiness.

Evenings

night

What is it about evenings that so fills you with a strange, inexplicable yearning?

Evenings are the twilight of the soul. Shadows in the hollows of our being deepen and pool together until we are but walking masses of darkness.

Such a loneliness grips you that it is difficult to put into words. So much of the media fixates on flashes of emotion, like happiness or anger, but it is the silent and slow-burning sensations of grief and yearning which each of us, in the quietness of our hearts, know best.

Nothing you do can allay the emptiness in your chest, not words, not books, not films, not the embrace of another human being or the prospect of love. No spiritual philosophies, no God or Goddess, no abstract idea offer the least bit of comfort. Filtered through the grey light of evening all appears washed-out and grey, as if the rain has soaked into the fabric of the world.

You feel the urge to do something mad and drastic, something to shake up this stagnant universe like a snow-globe until the galaxies and stars swirl in a glittering frenzy.

But what? When you are so horribly limited by existence on the human plane, what can you do to break through the gray membrane into the golden world on the other side?

Dance and jump until your heart nearly explodes? Stuff your face with food, gorging on the sweet and luscious substances until you are bloated and sick? Revel in whatever earthly pleasures you can snatch at in a bid to distract yourself?

It is at these times when the fears rush in, screaming like banshees. Fear of death, of oblivion. Fear of our inherent loneliness in the universe. Fear of the fact that nothing in the physical world can provide us any comfort from the unbearable dissatisfaction and awfulness of existence.

What we really want is to return to the womb, or perhaps someplace even beyond that, when we existed as but a flicker of light in an ethereal sphere, nothing but peace and love and serenity. We are stranded on the physical plane, left to grapple with its limitations, and we are in pain.

We press our bodies to each other, hoping to be consumed and absorbed, to lose ourselves.

We press our faces to walls, wanting the solidness of it, the safety.

We fold ourselves into books, wishing ourselves into other worlds where angels always trump demons and there is always a bed to return to, an adventure winding to a close, a comfort at the end of the story.

There is nothing. That is how you feel during these cold evenings. That our Earth is just a lump of rock, and us atoms assembled together in a particular form for a little while. All a stupid, pointless accident.

Yet you cannot live through life like this.

Hope must be found, no matter how small, even if it is based on dreams and foolishness, or else you will die.

So we hug ourselves tight and think: Love. We hug ourselves tight and think: Now. We hug ourselves tight and think: Together, As One. We hug ourselves tight and think: It All Passes. We hug ourselves tight and we think: It’s Okay.

Is it?

It is.

It must be.

New Short Story

Everything I write still makes me cringe to the point of agony, but I’m publishing it anyway. Of course, this is a blog, not a forum for critiquing or anything, but feel free to check it out, tell me what you liked about it or what you didn’t. This piece is one of the few based on the real world that I have ever written. The writing is far from perfect, but I hope the message can still shine through. Thanks.

https://strangeshortstoriesforyou.wordpress.com/2015/04/06/me-the-magpie-man/

PS: For Alice: if you can see this message, I have sent you a couple of emails recently, but I’m not sure if the one I sent to is still in use. If not, I put my email address on my “About” page so you (and anyone else) can contact me at any time. Lots of love. ❤

INFP Truths

When you are depressed, the rest of the human population suddenly morphs into more of an alien species than it already is. Smiles become oddities and laughter blasphemy. It is inconceivable that there are happy people in the world when you are mired in discontent. If only our external worlds validated our internal, the clouds unleashing rain when we are sad, a lightning bolt cracking the heavens in echo of our flashes of temper, everyone frowning and wearing black clothes when a piece of our soul withers and dies. What a wonderful world that would be.

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There are moments when terrible thoughts pierce one’s mind like invisible vultures, then flit away in wisps of feathers, leaving only a vague sense of unease. Don’t you ever have those moments? When suddenly nothing feels right, nothing at all, although you can’t say exactly what it is wrong, only perhaps the world is tilted in some way, reality flawed, a slight defect marring the scintillating depths of the jewel. The very tip-of-the-tongue quality of it is enough to make one scream.

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Pain is only experienced on an individual basis; that is to say, when you are writhing in agony, it is impossible for another creature who is not in agony to comprehend or truly sympathize with your plight. We each squirm through pain utterly alone, confined by our respective consciousnesses. Your toothache is only the end of the world for you. That is why people die and people do not care. What we do not realise is that, sprouting from the same great mass of consciousness, we are in fact all each other. This means that every person who has suffered in history has been us, and will continue to be us. This is why it is idiotic for us to hurt each other, and smart for us to help each other. Remember: helping another person is helping yourself, as they are you.

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Is there any word in the English language able to encapsulate the restlessness one feels when lunch ends and afternoon slumps around? The clock transforms into a tiny dictator, ticking away each second of our life, and nothing, not the books, not the internet, not the newspapers, not writing or magical worlds, hold the slightest bit of meaning. Such afternoons drain the colour out of life entirely, spitting it back only when night draws near. How wearisome.

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Many people in the world are carefree, a word that puts one in the mind of butterflies and meadows and galumphing, cheery elephants. For someone who is afflicted with an anxiety disorder, the very existence of such people is an affront. To make matters worse, deep down, us fretful folk know the best way to live life is to stay in the moment, and not give a damn about anything. But despite knowing this, we still worry, worry, worry.

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What I am most envious of is the ability of certain writers to immerse the reader in a dream-state after a couple of pages. Most writers, in fact, can do this. I, however, at my current level of ability, cannot. Instead, my stories are more fragmented affairs, as if the dreamer was woken up repeatedly throughout the night by a bludgeon to the head.

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Daily existence is characterized by nothing more than irritants. For instance, right now a person in the apartment below where I live is drilling, and above someone plays the same piano song over and over. My stomach is currently quite empty, and when this happens it always feels rather cold, like a black hole. On the inside of my lower lip there resides a canker sore, no doubt borne of my recent panic attacks, and it feels like a spot of acid boring through the tender flesh. I have a headache, and my finger bones feel slightly achy from typing (or something worse, if I allow my hypochondria to run loose). Sunlight piercing eyes. Discomfort around other people. These little tidbits added together make up the sum of life, which is why so many people in the world are miserable. It is an unfortunate truth that we are ruled by our physical bodies.

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You see right now consciousness is spinning itself out a billion times, a billion brains thinking a billion different things, a billion eyes looking at different things. This is why you should not fear death: other consciousnesses will live on after you, and more will blossom, and they will all be you. Think of how many eyes throughout history have looked upon the same sunset; this will make you feel a sense of grand unity with the universe and everyone who has lived and will live.

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Books allow us to cram a thousand lives into our single one. In that sense, they are the stuff of life itself.

I Started A Short Story Blog

After much debate, I started a short story blog.

Putting my writing out there for people to read is a scary thing, especially since I often hate everything I write.

But everyone has to start somewhere.

Here is the website, if you’re interested: http://www.strangeshortstoriesforyou.wordpress.com

I will be updating it periodically.

I hope you enjoy some of them.

Thanks.

– Dreamerrambling