I don’t trust the few people I’m close with. Though I don’t trust humans in general. But how am
I supposed to make friends with this constant worry?

I love him, but sometimes I want to end this. Just to stop these anxieties ravenously carving out what little remains of my insides after the past year. But even if I did I would still be sitting here, tinged manic green, shaking, and far too quiet.

Maybe its just women I can’t trust. Or maybe its my mother’s endless warnings of karma, that my actions will be returned. Though by her standards I don’t need to have my heart broken until my next life. Plus, I’m most likely coming back as a tree or a frog with all the stunts I’ve pulled thus far.

Maybe it’s the fact that I feel deep down I’m really just a horrible, manipulative, selfish, vain, bitch. Some of that just comes with the woman package. I always say women are evil, but i wonder if I’m just projecting? I stand by my faith in Hobbes, that it’s our job to fight our instincts for the greater good. If not for that, then for the selfish pursuit of happiness and to avoid descent into chaos.

I think I’m having a low-dose existential crisis.
I think I’m just incredibly jealous and unreasonably amorous.

I have played the other woman once, the girl in the red dress sipping champagne. Somehow it seemed justified at the time. Now I’m hesitant to commit, it’s just a waiting game until my actions come back at me. But I had enough heartbreak this year, enough trouble, too much pain. My unreasonable anxieties became justified. I spent a lot of time thinking
“This must be my punishment.”

I spent ten days walking around Paris and doing far less writing and thinking than expected. It took a while to realize the significance of the whole trip. I kept telling myself
“This is the first time I’ve really seen Paris.”
Before being stunned by something new, something beautiful, something Delicious.
Something reflected in the river. Something cracked with age. Something overpriced.
Something I couldn’t pronounce. Something.

“Ah, this is what it means to be in Paris”

My father’s voice would echo over the cheap cell phone
“Have you gone to Notre Dame yet? You have to go.”
So on my my last day in Paris I went, and it was smaller than I’d have expected. The whole scene felt far too dream-like. Seeing something you’ve seen already a thousand times before, deja vu.

I waited in a line to go inside, I considered just taking a picture of the facade and lying to my father. At this point, I’d seen my fair share of Churches. But I was tired from ten days of wandering and holding my tongue, so I stayed. It was worth it.

Signs throughout the church called for silence, but with hundreds of tourists it seemed impossible. I tapped around the perimeter and fell into a chair to rest my knees. I was a few rows behind a pair of nuns, one young and one old. The cathedral was dark, but sitting let me see the ceiling and the stained glass. I don’t know what happened, but I felt like one of those crazies who describe religious epiphany’s. I didn’t see jesus or anything, but my eyes went fuzzy.

I thought about my childhood, my resentment of the church because of the town’s scandal. I thought about the aspects of the religion that had nothing to do with those who practice it.

I had an overwhelming urge to take a vow of celibacy, to spend my days in meditation. I prayed, not to God, but to something. I prayed in hopes my thoughts would set my life’s balance right, produce some for of healing energy. It all made sense at the time.

I tried to figure out how I would explain to him that I was quitting life to go pray on a mountain forever or become a nun of sorts. I thought about just becoming one of those celibate couples, and I thought I could do it but it hasn’t seemed to work. I sat in Notre Dame crying, softly, and staring at the stained glass until I sunk into meditation.

I spoke to him that night, and it was stressful and liberating and uncomfortable and more. What ended up happening was I came home and gave most of my clothing to Good Will, cleaned out my room, and forgot about the rest of it. It’s coming back to me now. I just feel if I can make myself better maybe I can trust others more.

Maybe I’m placing too much blame on myself. I feel I’m not a completely worthless human(though aren’t we all really?). I do a lot for those I care about. I’m hesitant to make that bond, but when I do I commit more than is expected, more than I should sometimes.

I’ve been trying to learn to stop multitasking, to start listening more. To shut up. To stop trying to apply logic to matters of emotion. To trust. to show people I care as much as i do, that I hear as much as I do. My endless blabbering seems to get in the way of that.

But nothing worthy is easy. And no one as wonderful as he has been able to stick around so long, I can’t let them. I’m doing my best to fight my inner dialogue, it cries
Life is misery and life is pointless suffering!
Life is the illusion of reward!
Social interaction is a theater exercise!
We are all just lumps of ill formed clay, of slowly decaying matter!
Just end it!

But I’ve hit a weird optimist streak. I’m stuck here so I might as well convince myself there is a point. That there is hope. The fact that in the end, all this “bettering myself” bullshit is just another hopelessly selfish act is strangely comforting.

Give me validation.

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