December 6, 2017: What It Takes For People To Speak To Me

I missed Mr. Ying's birthday yesterday and sent him an email. It's becoming painfully clear that one day he won't be here and it's scares me to dust to think of my family that way.

When I say "what it takes for people to speak to me," I don't quite mean it literally. Although that too, stands true. What I mean is what I have to give up in order to feel human. 

 Inspired by a conversation last night, a part of me has awaken. Call it the full moon if it eases you, but yesterday I opened myself up to vulnerability almost unintentionally. Growing up, I had two fantasies; one was to be a nun, and the other was to be a prostitute. Having given this some thought in the past, it appears that what ties the two together is a level of detachment from basic human emotion. 

I've noticed that I often find it impossible to feel anger. Not so much because it's a useless reaction, but because punishing yourself over the fault of another doesn't seem to be a natural flow of energy. But I digress. 

Going back to human emotion, it didn't come naturally to me. I remember very well the last episode of the British show, Sherlock Holmes. In the episode, Sherlock's sister shares that she had always felt as though she belonged in the clouds. She paints this picture beautifully by setting a girl on an airplane in the sky where everyone else is asleep. She's the only one awake, and the plane could crash at any moment. 

Now my capacity is far from what's depicted by the character, but my sentiment very much mirrors her's. Growing up, there were patterns. People learn. People think. People understand. & Well...I see, absorb, and become. 

There's always lived a detachment from mankind and human emotion in me. As a young girl, I remember looking at man from the clouds, unable to grasp their essence. I remember watching children fight over toys, and I couldn't take my eyes off of the toy. Is it the color, the movement of the wheels, or man's unwavering desire to have their attention captured and played in exchange for a moment's enchantment? 

Most of what man did I found to be foolish, but it was simply and utterly mesmerizing. At first I was determined to find man's secret. I started feeling emotion. I started playing different characters. I started falling in love with things and with people. And that wasn't enough. I wanted short stories, poems, epics. Oh how enticing it is. And gradually, an experiment turned into something bigger. I became obsessed. And these days, I crave and starve for human emotion.

I wanted to know how people love. I wanted to experience all the light and darkness. I wanted to know. I wanted to feel. I wanted to be. I wanted to die. I wanted to live. The heightened euphoria of intimacy, the dysfunctional depth of emotional dehydration. And oh boy did I love, and love, and love. I lost myself, I re-envisioned myself, I consistently put my capacity to the test. I redeveloped characters around me. And I starved myself with enchantment. 

Perhaps I've fully assimilated and have become one of them. Perhaps all the silly products of man are rather nice. Things like money and time, human emotion and love, the little red objects on wheels that I play with, now are also common miracles. Or perhaps this is all imagined and I am just another man. How beautifully terrifying would that be? Does that make me despicable?

This is something that people have never been able to accept about me. Some find it interesting and begin to study it like a piece of work, others carelessly label it as narcissistic. While I must agree that I've fallen into similar patterns of thinking, my observations lead me to believe that most end the thought before reaching the discovery point. 

I've been asking Who am I for as long as I can remember. Do I have the courage to ask What am I? Or must I surrender under the illusion of personality disorder? 

After all, I am just a little girl in the sky with little direction and a fear of crashing the plane full of sleeping souls. 

And this concludes the most vulnerable, darkest mask I wear. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've gradually fallen in love with what it means to be human. Sometimes I feel like the little mermaid. In love with a world so foreign, so magical.  

But that's the thing. Being human feels foreign, even after so many years of falling in love with it. 

For as long as I can remember, I've been talking. It's time to be quiet and let life speak. Is it time for me to return to my own dimension?