I don't check my mail all that often. I don't really have much reason to. I barely even get bills.
But the last two times I have checked the mail, there has been a small envelope with no return address. And inside of those envelopes have been poems.
The first was from some book of affirmations that I can't presently recall the name of. The other was "I saw in Louisiana A Live-Oak Growing" by Walt Whitman. Both poems are beautiful.
I have no idea who is sending me these things. And as I pondered over the Whitman poem this afternoon, I found that I really do not want to know who this person is.
People ruin things. I know, for I myself am sometimes a person. And I ruin things all the time.
Right now, it is purely delightful. I get to reflect on the words that are sent to me, I get to ponder over why these particular poems were sent and what the sender wants to tell me.
I get to wonder when the next one will come and what it will say.
But more importantly, I get to just enjoy this really strange and beautiful feeling of being seen and cared for.
I mean, someone in the world somewhere thinks of me sometimes. They think about me enough to give me this gift that is so perfectly suited to who I am. This person knows me. They care about me.
Typing all that made me weep so much, I had to stop writing for a second. I actually feel loved right now. I don't really know what to do with the feeling.
It's like being freezing cold and then stepping into a hot bath; it stings because you are not used to it. It's a painful comfort.
Incidentally, Otis Redding's "Try a Little Tenderness" just came on. And I am still crying.
But this poem sender, whoever they happen to be, they can really only do their good in the shadows.
Because no matter who they are, me finding out their identity seems perilous.
If they are in love with me, but I am not in love with them, then that will be heartbreaking for both of us.
Being merely a caring and supportive friend would be by far the best outcome. No real pressure there, and I might even be able to more fully receive that love.
But come on, I would probably wish (at least a little) that I was being courted somehow.
If this person were in love with me and I in love with them (I don't know their gender), then that still seems absolutely terrifying.
In my last entry, I wrote about someone named Nadia.
We had a relationship that existed entirely in my head.
When we met, there was this instant sexual tension and easy flirtation between us. It continued to simmer every time we saw each other. In the meantime, I kept hearing things about her from my co-workers. All these things that made her just seem perfect. And that got me very excited. This was going to be it. I thought about her all the time and was having all these dumb daydreams about us taking road trips together and collaborating on a book or something.
But that desire, that excitement, that weight that I placed on the thing was all too much.
Everything I was feeling was so intense that it was near obsessive. It was very impatient. In my mind, it was crystal clear that we were meant to be together and I couldn't understand why it wasn't happening already.
And this was all with the two of us barely even talking.
She was definitely into me at first, but she had to start picking up on the intensity of my gaze. She could sense the vibe. It even creeps me out now that I am writing it. She called in the last two days of work. I hope that wasn't because of me.
I talked with my friend Bri about all of this and she said that she had been really worried watching all of this unfold. Now it is actually totally possible that Bri and I are the only ones that perceived all of this. It was all conveyed in body language and facial cues. Bri is a watcher though. That's why I like talking to her. She observes things.
And Bri was worried.
And I realized that I had been in such a severe season of depression, had been experiencing so much pain and discomfort and loneliness and failures, that the moment any kind of good feeling came my way, I would cling to it for dear life.
I was so excited for something good to happen that I totally botched it.
And that is a particularly bad feeling.
The truth is that I don't trust myself anymore. My compass is spinning. I am unsure of my instincts and my entire internal monologue. I don't think I have a good grasp on reality, at least not in regards to how I believe others see me.
I am so used to being alone that I don't know how to be with someone else.
I'm now even awkward around my closest friends. I feel like I can never be my genuine self. I am not sure that I have a genuine self anymore.
God, I am probably writing too much.
In short:
I really love receiving poems in the mail. It's my favorite thing to happen in years.
I really hope whoever is sending them keeps at enough of a distance that I don't screw it all up.
9:06 p.m. - 2017-08-29
Recent entries:
Dallas - 2017-10-19
31 days - 2017-10-11
Full Clean Lungs - 2017-09-09
Jagged Little Pill - 2017-09-06
A very over-extended metaphor - 2017-09-05
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