Disorganization has never been a friend of mine. Still, only now do I feel that I’ve become the personification of incompetence. I’m socially inept, and I scandalously fall for every third man that walks past.
Who am I? Hesse? Observations make you paranoid after a while. People have wondered why I’m good at assessing other people, their personalities, and so on. It comes from observing too hard.
Some have accused me of being biased, as I often judge the look and go by the first impression. Eyes and facial expression tell a lot about a person. You study their wrinkles (are they disturbed or happy?), the colour of the eyes, the width and form of their mouth, the size of the forehead and their hair structure. Others would look at the hands shapes or type of walk, but I don’t find these annotations interesting. We all judge the book by the cover, but we don’t talk about it. We give it a try, and then we dare to say the first word about this person.
I tend to write the first word about a person without speaking to them. Does it count to write about them? I don’t speak about them. Writing about them is most convenient because you don’t know who will read it. No one will ever know that you used preconceived ideas.
I never make the first step in social situations, small talk, and bonding. This leads people to call me quiet, shy and inaccessible, just because I don’t do small talk. OK, that was a lie. I have been small-talking (by force) in the last couple of weeks; otherwise, how do I bond?!
The most terrible thing is that I find myself disagreeing and not tolerating other people’s opinions and feigned enthusiasm.
I am sociable. I am sociable only when you are ready to talk with me about your deepest fears and regrets and not your favourite holiday destination because I will find out eventually. You find me accessible? The truth is: You are inaccessible to me. Suppose we won’t ever know each other.
My horoscope is right; I am prone to nervousness. And I have been, especially in the last few weeks. Therefore I’m not surprised that I’ve been having blackouts, like losing my thread in mid-moment, as though my soul has just left my body out of dread.
I’m trying to explain my insomnia. First, I thought it was my crushing on people (I’ve been saying crushing instead of falling or being smitten, because crushing hurts way more), but it can’t be since I’m eating cake. Or am I eating out of exasperation because I can’t have my love candidates?
I guess so. When I’m hopefully and optimistically in love, I usually lose three to four kilos in two days (the inner fire of love and desire does it).
The other scenario would be my Dickens notebook on my night table. Before hypnagogia, you often start to hear noises of your upcoming dream, but what I hear are words – my own words usually.
Then I grab my mobile phone for light and scribble into my Dickens notebook. Some people overthink, which results in sleeplessness because they don’t bother putting those images back in order or into words. After two or three hours of random scribbling (till ca. 3:30 am), I feel more relieved and less overflowed by words–words that I couldn’t speak out.
When you talk, you forget. I forget when I talk, which explains my blackouts. I often get them when someone says, “How are you?” or “Do you smoke?” I hate these questions because the answers aren’t as simple as you think; it’s not YES or NO, GOOD or BAD – these are not my answers because they are dishonest and inaccurate. Very often, I can’t be bothered explaining to you unless you seem dear to me, which doesn’t always happen. I’ve always envied smooth talkers. They should keep a dictaphone with them instead of a notebook. Unfortunately, they don’t care enough.
I don’t write because I think it’s fun; it’s because I have no choice.