What Drove Me Here

It's pathetic, really. I'm not sure why I'm even doing this because normally I would make fun of people who place their random thoughts out there for all to see. Perhaps it's just my own I'm-too-cheap version of therapy. Perhaps I'm romanticizing my life to the point where I would think that someone would really want to read about my frustrations, my sentimentality, my want for someone to want to read it.

This is not depression. It's sad, yes, but it's not depression. Lonely? Yes, I suppose you can say I'm lonely. But it's not because I don't have friends. It's not because I am not happy. It's like I'm stuck in the middle of something, someone and I can't tell those who are closest to me. Afraid? No, just wise. I am wise enough to know that if a male were to express things this way, he would be labeled many things, things I do not want to be labeled, or things I wish not to be labeled again.

I'm okay with being emotional. I've come to grips with that. I've come to grips that I am a walking contradiction. I write poetry and love basketball. I want my thoughts to be private but yet I publish them on a blog. I say I don't want people to read them, but how I wish someone would. I say that I don't care what people think, toss about my own brash language about every topic from politics to how Brittney Spears drives me nuts, and yet, I care what people think. I care very much.

I'm like you. (Or who would be "you" if someone were actually reading this.) I want to be loved. I want to be needed. And I know I am those things.

But the other day, I finally hit the nail on the head. While I have good friends, a good family, I want someone to sit me down, slow me down, and ask me about me. I want someone to take interest in my life besides those who have to.

Maybe that's why I'm here. I'm filling a void with you, dear reader. (Great, now I'm Walt Whitman.) Maybe I can fool myself into thinking that you're sitting me down on your computer and listening. You want to read these words because something about them rings true with you. You understand them.

And maybe, just maybe, I won't feel quite so foolish for feeling this way. And someone will read it, thought they may never know my name.