I am everything a teacher of mine warned me about: a youthful enthusiasm with an impatience that has a clock time set at double speed.
I have desperately longed to be understood and forgot, in my desperation, to be understanding. I have forgotten to lead with compassion, the urging to suffer with, and have forgotten so many have not been received in compassion that it is heavy to expect it from another.
I have longed to fix the world, forgetting and ignoring how the world does not want to be fixed, mangaged or dealt with, she, of all things, wants to be loved. How I forget that.
Most of all, I have expected love from others that I have been unwilling to bestow myself.
Nothing hurts me more than being a person, who in adamance, will say "I know" to another's genuine concern, expression of reminding, and wanting to support. It is not so much the reminder that hurts that threatens the longing to be seen as capable, but in recognizing how ungrateful I am. Being ungrateful to the deepest, most genius expression of a person: their presence and love.
I am afraid to write and because I have this sick sense that everything I say is diseased with the wretched look that it has been said before. That etched into my bones and skin, I am simply reading its grooves on its surfaces. Bones and skin that everyone has.