hypersensitive not only moving towards intense
introspection (I just don't think quite like I used to) but moving towards
beauty (never has poetry been
so strong and sharp a presence)
I only wish I knew what they were (they were strangers to me before, and I am not quite sure what to make of them); accustomed to
mediocrity (a pleasant, mellow; not quite dull, not quite stimulating state)--I am
flustered and floundering in these new extremes (I am not comfortable, and I don't know how I came to be here).
strangely social and
reclusive at once--demanding attention and likewise refusing it (I am lonely in groups--the
simple, intimate groups passively push me away, and I am actively alone). I like being alone (there is something sweet and cold in solitude. Maybe it's God, maybe it's me)
I want displays of affection, yet I shrug off the touch on my hair, the hand on my shoulder (I am not touchy-feely, and I don't want contact from them).
Strangely closer to
my family as I am further away (I miss
my dad's guitar and our walks, talks of
life and trees and dogs).
I want to write poetry, but frankly the thought terrifies me (
failure is inevitable)
So I'll leave it alone.