For as long as I can remember, I have had a curiosity with human actions and subsequent re-actions. Perhaps this curiosity stems from a delicate incapacity to interpret and anticipate the feelings and fancies of those around me. The only golden rule I’ve ever known seems to be failing me now, when others don’t seem to respond to my reciprocity and I don’t even know what to do anymore. And so stems a whole new class of uncertainty that has never felt as intense as it does now. Suddenly what was once-upon-a-time a charming peculiarity has now become a social shortcoming and I feel the space between myself and those I love swell at an alarming speed. It would make sense to self-seclude but that isn’t even an option because I adore being a part of this world so very much. Thinking and feeling seem to be safe so far, but saying and doing is an entirely different chronicle. My clumsy communication is, for the most part, complete and utter naivety which is why I will negate you if you commend my illusive maturity. I don’t know anything about anybody or anywhere anymore.
Now everything Fitzgerald ever said all makes sense :: half in love but not actually in love, any real emotions suddenly trumped by an inquisitiveness towards the unknown. Social science experiments seem to be messy ventures, for I have learned there is no constant but consistent rules. I’ve yet to understand whether these rules are norms, clichés or mutual agreements // tell me, how do you really feel?
I thought life was supposed to start all over again when it got crisp in the fall. Now, rather, it feels like my life is fall-ing apart. I thought sincerity was supposed to spellbind the souls of those around you but instead my inability to stray too far from who I truly am, seems to have left me with a strangely satisfying sort of melancholia.
“I was within and without. Simultaneously
by the inexhaustible variety of life.”
( I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. )
- A x
( images captured par mon étoile, emma matsuda )