It’s been a while like I felt like this. Filled with negative energy, I might say.
Usually this is the point where I burst into an angst filled poem that never manages to be read by the intended recipient. I can’t very well go up to someone and say here, I wrote you this and proceed to watch as their face contorts into a question mark, can I? What would YOU do if some crazy girl wrote a hate poem about you huh? And no, it is NOT flattering/romantic/cute.
I remember once not-so-long-ago a freaky-yet-potentionally-harmless-boy told me that he named a character after me in his story. I didn’t wait to find out what “she” was like, or what happened to “her”. I kind of.. fled. The fact is, it’s disturbing to think about the way someone else sees you.
But it’s more disturbing to see yourself as you, right? Who is you, anyway? Isn’t that frightening? Are you the girl who listens to a certain type of music? (I’ve got Spice Girls’ “Viva Forever” playing right now, don’t judge me!) Or are you the girl who treats herself to the glass of ice tea from the stall near the college gate everyday? But all these conceptions of “me-ness” are mine, they aren’t yours. This one little trait you actually might find adorable, but then unless I reveal it to you, you’d never know and your entire perception of “me-ness” and your subsequent judgment (I know, Spice Girls, I know) might rest on this little missing piece of “me-ness” that you haven’t encountered.
And then your way of seeing ME is totally not fair.
Lately, there have been questions.
Things I shouldn’t be thinking about right now, but things that I will think about anyway.
Choices, choices, choices.
How I love that I don’t have to make them now.