zenseekingninja-blog

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Anonymity with attention

l like this anonymity. The fact that I can write anything here and nobody knows its me. But then I also wish to be found.

[zenseekingninja-blog]

Human connection

We seek human connection. Even those of us who deny it. We seek to be seen, to be wanted, to be appreciated, to be loved. That’s when we star skirting around those boundary lines. That tinge of unfounded hope. That may be we will be found when pretending to avoid human connection.

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Regrets in the lockdown.

Now that I have started writing. Let’s stay at it. So, I was talking to a friend today. No, actually a friend was talking to me today. As we simmer in our midlife crisis exaggerated by the pandemic, what are our biggest regrets in life? A life that's gone by with so much not done, so much not achieved. And suddenly imprisoned by a rogue Chinese virus there seems to be even less time, even less of life yet. 

Her list of regrets had a healthy mix of personal and professional. The cute guys who remained unfucked because of fear and awkwardness, the colleagues who were allowed to steamroll, the meetings where things were left unsaid because she was the only woman in the room, and not living out the fantasies that our mind’s often weave. I will not expand on those here. Those are her regrets, not mine. Let’s have some respect for privacy here. 

What are my regrets? Which cute boys do I regret leaving unfucked and would I change that if I could go back in time? Hmm. Strangely nobody makes the list. I do have regrets but of not allowing myself to know that cute boy a little better, enough for me to like him, enough for me to love him, enough for him to love me, enough for me to be with him. Yes there are a few people in that list. I wonder how that classifies my sexuality. A demi-sexual? I need to like a person to be able to be with a person? Or maybe I don’t know because I haven’t tried out different things. Maybe I am saying this because I think that’s how I should be. Or maybe everyone is actually like that and they are only pretending to be sexual deviants.

What a shame this post has been so far. I have hit midlife and yet I am sounding more confused than a teenager (or not even) about to attend his/her first sex-ed class. 

Hang on. There is no confusion here. Let’s just accept what I feel. I regret not allowing myself to fall in love more often. It’s most peculiar I didn’t. I have been in love with love for the most part of my life. I grew up (starting pre-teen) on mush -  Listening to the cringe-worthy NKOTB (“you got the right stuff”), Police (”every breath you take”), A-ha (”take on me”), Madonna (”papa don’t preach”), Queen (”crazy little thing called love”). From this I graduated to even more mush with the boy bands, consuming and absorbing Pablo Neruda’s poetry (”so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams” - deep sighh) and all your other Latin American writers, to romantic movies and more writers and singers and poets and stories and real life inspirations. So what happened to my own story?

Do I like the idea of love more than love? I mean, for there to be love like that there has to be someone loveable. Right? But surely there were people worthy enough. Surely there are people worthy enough.  

Then why why why. Why did I think I wasn’t worthy enough for that kind of love? I was a weird kid. For a long time, a peculiar adult. What I didn’t realise was that I was an extremely loveable weird kid and a loveable enough peculiar adult. That I deserved that kind of happiness. That I deserve that kind of happiness. Real love, and nothing less than that. It’s taken so long to realise that.  

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Back to writing

I have been thinking I should write. It’s been a long time. But in recent months (maybe even years), every time I have sat down to write I have drawn a blank. Maybe because that’s how I feel. Blank.

Writing for me has always been an emotive exercise. It comes from feeling (even if I am writing facts), I use words which make me feel delighted, smarter, often surprise me because I hadn’t used those in so long and when they flow the experience makes me feel lighter.

So when I draw a blank, it means i am trying to connect to my heart and I can’t. This seems to be working - this writing about not writing. I have already put two paragraphs together. That too about myself, about my feelings. Is emptiness (blank) a feeling after all?

Or maybe I have been able to write because I am not writing for ‘You’. I am writing, but my intended audience is ‘me’. That’s new. I can’t remember the last time it’s been about me.