I don’t know much.
Honestly, I envy those people who know so much. The ones who can pepper a normal, everyday conversation with literary terms, who can endlessly quote ideas of archaic philosophers and make it seem like they read Kant, Heidegger or Foucault over coffee in the morning — right after browsing the news. I stare at them, wide-eyed and enthralled. I secretly revel in the snippets of information I gather from their animated discussions with peers, thinking, at the back of my head, will I ever be as clever as they are? And so, like an amateur bracelet-maker, I wade through a lake of a million beautiful beads, with just a wrist’s worth of thread, trying my best to piece borrowed thoughts and ideas together.
I usually end up with a plain-looking bracelet though. Maybe I need a longer piece of thread. Or my own lake.
As we continue to get to know each other more, and become increasingly comfortable around one another, our idiosyncrasies have started to surface, and I must say, we seem to be taking everything in stride. That “…then I need time to think,” incident is, again, like something lifted off the silver screens, as are most of our dramatic encounters, but more than that, as you said, it was an expression of how we would act in the face of problems, petty or fundamental. It turns out, we both are willing to do things we’ve never done before, just to keep each other — you not walking out, and me, actually waiting, albeit still with a hint of impatience.
For half an hour I’ve been thinking of what to write to you this time. I haven’t told you, but August is usually my least favorite month of the year, even though its my birthday month. For one, difficult times seem to cluster around this period, and for some unknown reason, my optimism seems to have gone on an unannounced vacation, indefinitely. This is certainly the time when I least deserve your love. I’m irritable and irrational most of the time, and sometimes I behave like an ingrate to you. There may be times when I try to make things difficult for you just to see where your limits lie. I rant a lot, I feel like everyone’s screwing with me and making my life difficult. Oh, how I love to victimize myself. I don’t know how you put up with my constant victimization and obstinacy. If I were you, I would’ve already snapped at me for being such a crybaby.
I’m sorry for all the times I made you feel inadequate — something that you’ve never been, and never will be.
I wake up, stare at the ceiling and let my mind wander aimlessly about in the darkness. I hear the faint ticking of a clock in the distance. Lonely shadows. I have never been enough, and I fear, I will never be. Sadly, those I supposedly hold dear to my heart are the fist ones to suffer my inadequacies. It’s always the same story, the same plot, the same ending.