I want to inspire you. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I want to be your muse, I just want to stir something in you. I want you to feel passion, to feel energy roaming through you, pushing you towards something. I want to be the cause behind a poem, a story, an act, a dream. It doesn't have to be grand, it doesn't have to be all that memorable. It doesn't matter whether our lives are intertwined for years or if they simply intersect for a moment, and then bounce off one another. It doesn't matter whether you love me or feel nothing but indifference towards me. It doesn't matter, the details don't matter. I just want to inspire you.
Brief Interviews With Indecisive People
“Why can’t I just tell him, hey, I’m going through a thing. Sorry if I’m being a crazy butthead right now?”
“You can’t just tell a guy that,” she says.
“Why not? Why am I supposed to just play this game where I act normal when I don’t feel normal? Why can’t I just be honest with him? Why don’t people do that? I feel like we’d all understand each other better if we did that.”
“You can’t just tell a guy you’re crazy.”
“….Fine. I won’t.”
“Well.” He laughs. “You kind of just described life,” he says.
On the phone with you, I also cry. You don’t know I’m crying. I tell you about another time when I cried and you didn’t know, when we’d ended an email correspondence — an innocuous one —and I’d cried myself to sleep for no reason I can figure out.
Even when I’m happy with you, I want to cry.
Brief Interviews With Indecisive People | Thought Catalog
“You can’t just tell a guy that,” she says.
“Why not? Why am I supposed to just play this game where I act normal when I don’t feel normal? Why can’t I just be honest with him? Why don’t people do that? I feel like we’d all understand each other better if we did that.”
“You can’t just tell a guy you’re crazy.”
“….Fine. I won’t.”
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“It’s so doomed,” I tell him about us (the new “us”) over dinner. “But it’s happening anyway.”“Well.” He laughs. “You kind of just described life,” he says.
------
I cry a little bit to myself while standing on the subway platform waiting for the L to take me from Brooklyn to Manhattan. My phone doesn’t have service so I type in a bunch of text messages to you that I’ll never hit “send” on.On the phone with you, I also cry. You don’t know I’m crying. I tell you about another time when I cried and you didn’t know, when we’d ended an email correspondence — an innocuous one —and I’d cried myself to sleep for no reason I can figure out.
Even when I’m happy with you, I want to cry.
Brief Interviews With Indecisive People | Thought Catalog
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