With the start of a new year, it is often expected that I write something sentimental. “Where do these expectations come from?” you might ask, and the simple answer is: from myself, of course. This happens because while I learn from my experiences, my verbosity can never allow me to learn in silence. Seeing as how no one ever wants to listen to my shit however, I resort to option deux and write. Over these writing-because-no-one-wanted-to-hear-my-shit years, I learned the value of not buying carpets together with other humans; I finished medical school and found that I didn’t hate being a doctor – yeah, I know, took me by surprise too – I ventured into writing fiction and promptly left; I found love and lost it and well, here I am changing yet again.
I’ve found that change is quite a nuisance and while I will not go so far as to say I hate it – because then everyone and their aunt will talk my ears off with unwanted advice – I will say that I do not particularly enjoy it. I have quite a few behavioral disorders and being a control-freak is the mildest of them. Simply put, I love being able to anticipate every step of this godforsaken way and have a contingency just in case the plan doesn’t work out. Order, perfection, control… Aaah, they smell like delicious, delicious fear coffee in the morning. Consequently, I do not trust people who love chaos and spontaneity; I mean really, we evolved for a reason. That being said, I’m sure you can begin to see why I don’t like change and when it comes knocking on my door, I’ll only let it in if we have a specific arrangement. But that bastard is as sneaky as the devil and sticks around long after expected to leave.
That brings us full circle and in some vague, rather abstract way explains why I’m doing this all over again. Writing is like an addiction to me. Too much goes on in my head to not be put down and while I often try to decompress by talking to myself, it still does not suffice. With committing these thoughts down in the form of words however, I get a sense of fulfillment I’ve never been able to describe. This is the very reason I encourage almost all around me (who will listen) to write – because writers write – but unfortunately, I am yet to get a convert to date. That doesn’t stop me however.
It’s rather hard for me to find someone and simply get into a conversation that’s engaging enough to keep me interested. I know that that doesn’t make sense considering that I’m the one driving the conversation in those cases but you see, with social anxiety, little ever makes sense traditionally. I’ve spent years being told over and over again that I am way too weird and too intense in my conversations and that’s why I’m not much fun to be around. I actually agree with this wholeheartedly; I am quite the downer. That has never really bothered me because I love myself – yes, even to the point of vanity – and while my own company is exquisite, no one wants to be alone forever; it’s the heartbreaking truth. We are innately programmed with the need for companionship and the want to be accepted. I’ve tried to erase that shit but to no avail.
Eventually I accepted that some malicious higher being ensured that I will always need what I don’t want. This meant that I had to take the initiative so I don’t wither away. Therefore, whenever I used to meet people I found intriguing, I’d always make it a point to square my shoulders, go over, and say hello. This is exactly how I learned that my love for long, luxurious, and fantastic conversations about human nature and its philosophy; the universe and its significance; our decisions and their purposes; isn’t shared by everyone and those who can stomach it can only do so for a very limited amount of time.
Time eventually wears us down however and so here I am, a prime example of that fact, unable to even summon the fastidiousness I used to exhibit in these interactions. How people think and why they speak the way they do have always fascinated me and while that interest has not diminished one bit, I find that I don’t have the energy to keep trying only to be turned down. Again. This, of course, is now complimented by those with whom I have passing interactions. They tell me with a certain amount of bemusement and smugness that I am now easier to talk to because, well, because I don’t pick nits in my conversations anymore. A change that happened with such subtlety that I didn’t even notice it until others pointed it out.
Well, fuck them!
It’s a rather peculiar existence having so many thoughts with no one to read them – let alone listen to them – but like I’ve always said, I enjoy my own company a lot more than I do most people’s and that is probably the reason I am a bit of a recluse. It is also the reason I keep writing and why I live every year for myself. And truth be told, few experiences are more satisfying than that.