Brains!

This post is the previous post re-written, or returned to its original format, if you get my drift. Sometimes I returned to the original writing and put it in there, unclean and revealing, other times I rewrote the issues all together.

I analyze daily. I’m trying to discover explanations for humanity. Perhaps it is only my humanity. Why I may feel the way about this sometimes doesn’t follow through on a similar issue, and so a lot of the time I have to rethink life over again. I find I am continuously finding new factors for things, psychological and socialized factors, that make me think, feel and act the way I do. Sometimes I wonder if I ever loved James the way I thought being in love way like. I loved him, have that I am sure. But it’s strange the longer I go the more I don’t feel like my heart was ever breaking about losing him, it was always more about losing the safety and breaking him. Movies seem to make these scenarios that I have yet to see happen with my own eyes.

There was an intense devotion between Grealy and Patchett, they were able to express themselves to each other because of their talent, and I think it only strengthened their relationship. They knew what they were saying to one another, and there was no need for testament of their devotion, because deep down they knew it was there always. Maybe that’s how I approached James. He was just a friend I used for my own needs, but always down there deep there was devotion and faith about the relationship we had. But it was never more then an exceedingly close friendship. I’m doing it again, analyzing.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t keep my friends close enough. When I get glimpses of what it is like to not be with friends I realize I don’t appreciate or try hard enough with the ones I have. Specifically Olga and Anna. Boys who are friends are an entirely different manner, for the most part. But I feel like that’s boring and I don’t want to write about it. But I always take for granted how entirely lucky we are be here, and that ever moment I let my friends not know that I am lucky to have them I am not thankful enough.

I want to be a person who writes long letters to distant friends about my life, letters about my romantic travels. But that is not me. I realize I want to be this floating wisp of summer dresses and tan skin covering a useful body, walking across lands so faraway. But it’s not me. People don’t have to write back. In fact I have the strangest feeling that I would want them to sit at home and fall in love with me. It may be a good time to say that I am writing this after a numerous amount of terrible beer and have just staggered in from being driven home by a notoriously awful driver who had also been drinking. Perhaps I am just floating above my chair. I want people to wish they were me sometimes. To be beautiful, unobtainable, unstoppable, unchain me.