Nothing is ever enough. Nothing fills me up. I like intense flavor. When I eat, I like the strong unmistakable array of flavors. Salt, teriyaki, barbeque, ginger, garlic, lemon. I eat anchovies, wasabi, hummus, capers, vinegar. The more the dish is able to take over my mouth, the better. There is no need to think about taste when the taste is so blatantly apparent. Maybe that’s how I like my people. Maybe that’s how I would like my life to be. Straightforward. To the point. So much to the point that there’s no room to think about it.
Everything about me is vanilla. My outward attitude is honest and trusting. No room for that secretive delectable spice that sparks inspiration in people. That spice that people crave. I do like vanilla, don’t get me wrong. I live inside vanilla. I buy vanilla scented candles and when I get ice cream its always vanilla with hot fudge. This vanilla-ness makes my craving for the spectacular even more deepened and vehement.
I suffer from debilitating loneliness. I just can’t shake this disposition. I don’t like to be alone. I’m scared to death of being alone. And lately, even when I’m in good company I still have this gnawing emptiness.
This loneliness makes me feel a part from everyone. It makes it hard to connect with others. I feel infected, contagious even. I feel like I humor people. I pretend that I’m just like them, but really the sadness is only a thin veil away from exposure.
I like what’s tangible. Thoughts are not tangible unless they are written. To be able to write exactly what I’m feeling rubs the dullness out of me. It rubs out the confusion. It allows me to see myself from a higher point of view.
When I get in these moods, I can either sleep, or write it out of me. Today I’m writing it out.
This is me being selfish. I see nothing but myself and care only about my delicate, fragile ego. These problems I suffer from are purely my doing. They only exist to me.
If I were to meet someone suffering from my inflictions, I would laugh at them and say they’re being silly. I would see them as being weak.
Thats the trick to my sanity. To imagine meeting myself and seeing from a fresh perspective that my sadness is as real as a hologram. Just a projection of my fears, my inadaquacies. Its nothing. Nothing at all. But I am something. And if I let out my flavor, my fervent spice, then I’ll be whole. Then ‘thine cup runneth over.’