Truthfully, I’m mad at you. You don’t really know me, partly because I don’t want you to know me. You think you can out gift me? You can’t out-gift a Latvian. You think you can out ask me? You can’t. I know you better than yourself before we even dare spark up shoddy small talk. I’m afraid to know you becuase you are real. You have blood, lust, and desires. You feel the colorful spectrum of pain that we hide below the surface. Show me a shade of color and I’ll show you my understanding. I’ve seen it before. I’ve felt it before. I’ve cried my fair share to it. I’ve yearned and reminiscned after it.
It’s easier if I don’t know you. I can wake up tomorrow with a clear mind. If you open up, so does the real world. A specatacle of emotions and realities that you’ve felt so personally are open to empathy. I lie with them. I cry with them. I die with them.
I’m not mad at you for stealing that car stereo. I’m not mad you for getting black out at work. I’m not mad at you for hitchhiking. I just worry about you. I’m glad I know you now. You’re here. Flesh and bones, admitting, reflecting, and sharing. You could be gone tomorrow, but today we revel in our glories and regret of our sorrows.
I’m happy to know you. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t understand you.
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