demacrux: (Default)
[personal profile] demacrux
 
 
 I write of what I do not know. I suppose that's terribly common of most that enjoy writing. It's why it sometimes requires research. I have to get what I'm saying right. Or at least, not terribly out of reality. Even if it's rather unreal in the first place. 
 
However, there are things I know I will not experience as they are the supernatural, the use of characters not quite my own. Just interpretations for amusement. But when it comes to creations entirely my own, I write often of what I know not and feel somewhat insecure about not knowing. I don't know how to deal with the requited feelings of any sort. It has always been feelings left unexpressed because previous rejection has turned me inward. Unwilling and hesitant to push forward in any sort of interest. It's a theme, I can't say I am the most proud of to be honest. . I never feel like it is serious enough for me to wonder about so much in writing.  It might mark me as even younger than I appear with such a focus. 
 
I'm sure those that have experienced it can say how serious it gets. 
 
I miss out. I don't know if I'm entirely regretful of that. I don't know how to deal with the exhilaration that comes with meeting someone that strikes your chord. I don't know about finding those that you thought would be good but aren't. That requires interest in you in the first place. I hear about it. It's all hearsay or me. Or imagination. I can always pretend but I worry. I worry that pretending is not enough. Never enough.
 
It is a concern that I reject often enough if someone has ever known me. Out of hand, out of mind. I have an education to pursue, internships to seek out, further schooling to research. Hobbies to pursue, music to obsess over.  I don't have the time or the patience to worry about it.
 
But I do. I do and it's just not something that is fun to deal with. It's not. So I write about it sometimes. I write about other unknowns but the personal unknowns of emotions. Emotions that I can only gather from the secondhand experiences. Those that I could have at least a little inkling of by now, but no. Sinking into media, distractions of all sorts, I do not care for the hearsay. And saying that it'll come someday, never comforts me in the least. If anything, it's an irritation. Like is there nothing else one could say? Just please, nothing at all. It's less of an insult. 
 
It's almost as if I would have rather never known that these things have existed in the first place. At least then I wouldn't have had to  think about it entirely too much.   Or at least, I would like to know for certain that I'd never experience these thoughts. But because there is all too much uncertainty, all I can do is wait, write, and venture out occasionally.
 

November 2014

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