Stop Me

How important is it to you that you talk to someone on a daily basis? I mean more than just the inane chatter you find at work or at home. I'm talking about real conversation. Talk that means something.

Am I the only person who seems to need that on a daily, or at least a regular basis? Why doesn't the human interaction I get at work and the little I get at home provide at least a little satisfaction? Why doesn't quench some of the thirst I have for human contact?

I guess it's because I've always held my close friends higher than anyone else, including my family. If I don't get to see my close friends on a weekly basis, at the very least, I get depressed. It doesn't even really matter all that much what we do, as long as I'm there with them.

I've gone off on a slightly related tangent. Yes, having that time once or twice a week to be WITH my close friends is extremely important to me, but I'm talking about something a little different. I'm talking about my interaction with them between the weekends, in the days where we can't hang out together. Am I the only one who needs something there, something small but real, to make the week bearable? I can't be, can I?

It takes effort from me, real effort, not to send messages and call people every day of the week looking for conversation. I know no one wants to hear from me so much and I know I'm doing more harm than good just by trying to contact these people as much as I do, but not trying is unbearable. Simply unbearable. I'm driven by hope. Hope that someone will talk. Hope that maybe they will make me feel less lonely. Hope that they can make me happy.

But that is a lot to place on the shoulders of others, especially when they are my burdens to bear. I will never be happy with simple conversation, but that won't stop me from trying. From hoping.

I guess the best thing I can do is to stop. Stop messaging. Stop calling. Stop asking. If people want to talk, to hang out, to see me, they'll ask. The more I ask, the more my heart is torn by rejection.

And it's no one's fault but mine.

But Not Really

I wish you were a terrible person. That way, not talking to you would be easy.

"Just a Dream"?

Eyes heavy and muscles waning, I dragged myself into bed. Surrounded by darkness, sleep's warm embrace came easy. But it did not hold.

Back and forth I tossed in the night, deep slumber never taking hold. Frustration mingled with weariness, resulting in desperation. Desperation for sleep. For an escape. But then, amid the turmoil of sleeplessness, somewhere in between waking moments, I dreamed.

Of you.

Though it was only for a moment, I wouldn't trade that moment for the world. You were so beautiful, so stunning. Almost as beautiful as you were when I saw you Saturday morning. Somehow, in jeans and a hoodie, you stand out like a diamond amidst coal.

You know what you did in my dream? You did what I cannot. You did what I have been trying to do for so long but have found myself unable to. You did the one thing I find myself trying to do each and every day. You simply asked a question. And I answered. Such a taste of happiness I may not know.

I awoke.

My first thought was of you. Happiness filled me and reached for my phone. I had to tell someone about this. Reality hit like a brick wall.

It was just a dream.

It wasn't real. It never happened. You never asked your question and I'm still the coward who will likely never ask you.

Closing eyes now filled with tears, I turned over, trying to forget. Maybe my next dream would turn out to be real.

Damn, you're beautiful.

Forgotten Already

That was fast.