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Not worth reading | pt 2

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You know my writer brain is doing that thing again. One where it aches to write epiphanies and thoughts that are better left unsaid and unspoken. So here I go.

As I independently stroll across a sidewalk; water and rocks on one side, pool on the other, there’s some sort of “being alone” moment that occurs. So I quickly chat away with friends and update social media just so that feeling goes away. And for a minute that connection, that like, that response makes perfect sense, it makes me laugh and smile and quickly and discreetly, it fades away.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt that, finding loneliness in a moment of independence, forgetting why I’m in a busy room full of people I barely know or right in the middle of a meeting, finding solutions for clients, but only questions for myself. Why does alone feel so lonely? And, why aren’t all these people I know and love filling that space so I don’t feel as empty anymore.

Complicated questions, no answers.

If I were honest, it makes so much sense when I put it into words, write it out. But every time someone asks If I’m okay? The perfected words “I’m fine” are the only ones that seem to escape my lips. Imagine this, you walk up to someone, someone who seems to be doing fairly okay and ask them How they’re doing? Are you really looking for the right answer or the easy answer? Are you willing to listen and understand all the reasons once isn’t fine. Does it make a difference? Will it ever? Agh, I’ll never know.

Just like I never know what to say when someone asks me any question that demands baring soul and letting in. Sarcastic humor cocooning insecurities (learned effectively from Chandler Bing) seems to be the only way I’d tell the truth. As if knowing what’s wrong is this big piece of the puzzle that demands your utter attention in knowing me. I’m not gonna lie, every time I do do that, my insides are screaming, “read between the lines.”

Until next time…

 

 

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