Essays, Etc.

What I Need, Etc.

WooWoo here again. Another anonymous essay for you, please enjoy!

I’ve sat around on the computer for over an hour now procrastinating, watching heartbreaking anime, and staring at a blank word document in dread. To be completely honest, I didn’t think I would end up writing about this.

I could’ve written about sadness. Depression. Anxiety. Worthlessness.

But I don’t want to.

Though I am almost always anxious and downright terrified of the universe… I must admit it is beautiful.

This isn’t about life – this is about love.

Dangerous love, secret love, one-sided love; the whole shebang.

I should stop writing about writing about love and just write about love.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve stopped reading by now.

Anyways…

I’ve never really been in love. Of course, there are the boys and girls that I’ve loved but none that I have utterly and wholly loved loved. Does this make sense? Probably not.

But that’s a lie.

Every line of poetry I read that manages to take a stab at my heart slowly seeps into my skin, and pen marks bruise my arms until they are black and remembering. I fall for the words so it could be assumed… I fall for the writer. Hard.

It’s not that love love but it’s love.

(Oh lord, I’m not making sense again.)

It doesn’t matter, okay?

I’ve seen far too many writers that downright hate what they write. And when someone tells them they love it, they tend to respond like this:

“Thank you but this is awful, utter shit. I can’t write thank you enough for being nice even though this sucks.”

A little word vomit-y, but you’ve gotta admit – I’m right.

I wish I could be that hero that appears out of nowhere in their bedroom to shower them with compliments and reassurances that they are perfect for being imperfect and that is okay.

But that’s not what I’m here to do. I’m not here to tell anyone that they’re amazing or beautiful or fantastic.

I’m just here to say that you are what you say you are. There’s no escaping it.

If you label yourself as a hopeless romantic that will never be in a relationship, or find that one true love… You’re not going to.

Not forever, no. I’m no god. I don’t know your fate. I don’t want to.

I guess now is a good time to let you know that I’m a chronic worrier. A worry wart. A panic-attack-just-waiting-to-happen.

I’m a hypocrite. Perhaps a tad too negative but I’m working towards smiling a bit more often and looking on the bright side. It’s hard, but possible.

The anxiety won’t go away. Your longing for another probably won’t either.

And I was going to say “Just don’t think about it.” but I know how impossible it seems.

Like I said before, I’m working towards the moment where I will smile and it feel real. Working, not hoping for it blindly. I’m not forcing myself to smile but I’ve managed to detach myself from the reality I had built around my mind.

What was safe before, was dangerous. My thoughts were poisonous.

Right now, I’m living. I’m breathing. I’m typing this to whoever happens to be reading.

But I’m living.

In this moment I am living and I am breathing and I am not worrying about life or friends or homework or sadness or the anxiety I will surely feel tomorrow morning when my alarm clock screeches and groans, coming to life.

I am living for myself and this second.

This is love. This is what I need.