Sometimes I wish my handwriting were sloppy so I wouldn’t feel like people were reading as I write on the train. But now that I recognize that I have this problem of not writing anything at all I don’t feel so self conscious. If you are snooping right now, well then hello stranger.
What it feels like to be in-like with someone is similar to a train, I think. This morning I was waiting for the 6 train for 15 minutes, and it was annoying and unbearable. Two trains had sped past the station and the platform was crowding three layers deep with bored and sleepy faces that grew tempered after the announcement of a stalled train on 110th street. Frustration. Impatience. Annoyed at being teased by two trains, not even packed, never opened their doors, never stopped, never even slowed down.
This is what it’s like for me. I know that someone’s coming I just don’t know when and I’m tired of waiting. I just want to go somewhere already.
A friend of mine told me that the way it worked for her and her current boyfriend was that she found herself insatiably curious about this small dude sulking (or maybe just being quiet) in a corner of a room at a party she went to the fall of last year. He was mysterious, intriguing. Perhaps it started at first as some inexplicable sexual attraction, but what she found underneath his lone exterior was powerful enough, desirable enough, for her to hold on to him, even as I watched her slowly lose the individual she was before she met him. Not that it was a bad thing for her to change, it was just that I had never expected love to be strong enough, truly strong enough, to recreate one of the most free spirited people I had ever known.
Thinking about their love makes me wonder if this is the same thing I’m facing. I’m not patient however, and I am concerned that my impatience will prevent me from experiencing something great and exciting. My horoscope this morning told me to be open to love, and while I think I am—I always am—I also think that by expecting, my openness reduces. For when I do not receive, I close in, and I bury myself. Why is it, I wonder, that a person can be so relaxed with a stranger when only considering the prospect of friendship, and at the same time paralyzed upon speaking with someone they feel more for? I’m very self-assured and I know that I am at least a little likeable when I am notactively trying to impress someone. I can’t imagine how this must feel for someone with a lesser opinion of themselves. But maybe they have their own benefits too. They don’t expect very often so they also don’t feel as much disappointment. Maybe I am… I am in my head too much. But that’s what writing is for. Not to converse so much as it is to release. I feel myself de-stressing already though today has been especially awful.
I wish I felt comfortable enough to tell him that I’m excited to see him today, but I am afraid that if I express such an emotion, he’ll just run away like the rest of them. I think they run because they can’t handle it, the amount of myself I am open to offer, and it scares them because they can’t match it. “Being a powerful woman, a loyal woman emasculates them.”
But another cause to run is too much affection. Smothering, falling into train tracks.
Sometimes I feel like my insides are screaming like metal and electricity echoing angrily down a subway station. And still at other times I am content with sitting on a bench listening to my iPod, waiting on the platform.