I hate people who fall in love easily, that special prickly hate that can only be fueled by jealousy. They have found it, I think, that connecting point between abstract thought and reality. They know how to take thoughts and emotions and turn them into physical touch, or even just spoken words.
There is a part of me that is a normal person who wants to touch and be touched. This part is so carefully sealed away, though. I don’t even know what it is sealed behind – fear, I guess, or some kind of nameless screen. It is so hard to even think about. It slips away, refusing to be caught by words.
I feel so defective sometimes. I know what I want: I want to want. I want to be a person who can enter a moment, even briefly. But there it is, every time: this clumsy, painful space between my lips, my hands, and the person they are trying to reach. I can never find that mystic connection, between the interior of my head and the outside world.