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rare sensitivity

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

what i’m wearing: pretty little thing beige waterfall jacket,
zaful maxi slit sweater dress, reiss felt camel fedora, zero uv
aviator sunglasses & miss pap suede over the knee boots


“You are blessed with a rare sensitivity. It’s what makes people artists, poets – this porous nature.” This is a quote from Sweet Bitter, a beautiful book I recently finished reading and I cannot, perhaps ever forget it. Now, I’m not claiming myself a poet nor an artist, I certainly do try and while my attempts aren’t so much effort but a habit in themselves, I don’t think I’ve managed to write anything yet that someone might read and whisper ‘wow’. One day, I hope.  But this sensitivity, of a porous nature? It resonated with me, I soak up like a sponge. And it can make one feel very lonely, very misunderstood, very prone to frustration because everyone else seems quite impervious. They are stones and I’m a sponge in a flood. It’s no wonder I cry as often as I do. It does have it’s benefits I believe,; I am lucky in that I feel intensely, deep melancholy that turns me nauseous, happiness that bursts like a drug and all the varying, infinite emotive degrees in between. This certainly helps when it comes to both  self-expression and self-awareness, which I hope propel my writing to where I hope it will be one day.  And yet, whenever I verbalize my thoughts to most, words not written but transmitted via air… they feel like an echo. Responses vary to none at all, a confounded shrug or at worst, an insipid quip such as ‘cheer up’.  Most people prefer to talk about a latte they saw on snapchat or what Kendall wore and here I am, desperate for a real conversation. The kind I only truly ever have with my parents and a select few best friends; none of whom are around in my daily life. Now, I’m not saying I’m above gossip or all the simpler facets of life we as humans discuss, but there must be more too. That cannot be all there is. Increasingly, I’ve found myself shying away from socializing. I’ve begun expressing myself only minimally. Quite like an iceberg, I’ve found solace in keeping only the blandest 10% of myself visible. As for the cauldron that is the other swirling 90%? I’ve been writing it all down, vicariously. I’ve been reading many books by authors who make me feel less alone. And then, instead of a Friday night party, I’ll put on the dialogue of a podcast. I have never had so much creative energy, by simply saving all these thoughts that are explosive within me to the written word, I am happier. The people whose ears they used to fall upon seemed bored. So, instead of that frustrating echo, I hope to have a book… or many books. And even if no one ever wants to publish or buy or read them, they are still  a refuge for the sponge that I am. Is this the healthiest way to combat my loneliness and frustrations? I have no idea. But then again, that’s simply another classic trait of a sponge-human; absorbing so much makes one very uncertain about almost everything. Forever unsure is perhaps all I can ever assure.


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