I read your writing, listen to the art of your music (over and over, you don’t know that I made a recording that night), and see so much depth. I see so much pain. I wonder if you think our lack of connection sometimes is because I’m really just not that deep - a shallow wading pool of a human.
Even writing feels like a shallow attempt.
But I’m not.
I can’t be.
I’ve done too much, seen too many things. I’ve seen the beauty of the Notre Dame’s lights go off at three in the morning from the sloping roof of my Paris apartment, naive and vulnerable, living alone halfway around the world. I’ve battled an anxiety disorder that makes me stronger for getting through school than most people at this university.
Doesn’t that give me some credibility?
Just because everything seems blinded by my overactive empathy and anxieties and self-consciousness doesn’t mean that I’m not feeling too. It doesn’t mean that I’m not thinking complex thoughts about society and the stupid world we live in. It doesn’t mean that I’m not at your intellectual level. It doesn’t mean that I don’t question daily why I’m doing anything at all. You aren’t the only one.
We have a wonderful relationship, for the most part. When we’re not battling for a balance of having each other and having room to breathe.
I just wish you saw this in me. I’m afraid you don’t.
I want to be worthy of your raw thoughts and emotions. I don’t want them to be filtered through someone else anymore.