I find myself frequently disappointed in the human experience; the emotional connections that seem a natural existence but rare occurrence. The shallowness in daily conversation often debilitates my brain … my soul … and I find with each new repetition I sink deeper into the oblivion that people have created, and from which few return.  That dark — shallow — tide which appears in the end much more frightening than death ever could be, because it is, in and of itself, a kind of death.

Words matter, as does the context, yet how does one grow if others don’t wish to speak on certain matters, nor wish to allow others to delve into their deepest self?  Are we not meant to grow and to change?  Can we not make amends together, and would it not make the experience that much better and more fulfilling?

Everyone has an opinion on everything, has unsolicited advice to give, and listening is an art form that appears to be dying.  Perhaps my romanticism is my own undoing; there are so many things I wish to say, but the fear of rejection and the inevitable subjugation that comes with putting one’s feelings on the line troubles me … even to my own private heart.

I have found many a time that people will say, “You can share your feelings with me, trust me,” or “I won’t judge.” Yet, the moment certain words stumble from one’s lips, there is a particular judgmental horror that emanates from their eyes, and their physical recoil is almost too much to bear.  And so troubling is this to the soul that those who wish to open up — immediately shut off … and they lose themselves to that world where no one really cares.

This is not to say that life is so heavy — that there is no room for laughter and banter — but when there is only laughter and surface, how can life not be boring?  How can it really be meaningful?

The emptiness I often feel at this missing link frightens me.  It is hard to believe that so few want to explore themselves and their demons, their curiosities, or the invariable grief that life frequently offers.  But I want to be enveloped in it so that these hurts eventually lose their sharpness.

I’ve been in relationships where I buried my thousand questionable thoughts and feelings … I know what it is like to not feel, or at the very least, harmful end of the spectrum … to pretend to not feel.  It is a slow death that I would not wish upon anyone.  Released of that most intimate bond people often engage in — I have feelings I never knew existed; the placement of them almost always amiss, and the energy they have has almost no outlet for release.  I’m unsure in conversation of my words and my actions, and I frequently question everything.

Chances are that if you are so inclined towards this strange, occult version of romanticism, you will constantly be disappointed … because nothing, and no person, can live up to one’s own imagination and dreams.