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Thursday, 19 January 2017


It takes a lot to make me nervous, to have butterflies in my stomach, beside my crippling anxiety, I’m strong. I don’t let my feelings show, in fact I rarely ever let them amount to anything. I crush them with self doubt, worry and fear. A good tactic for if you don’t want to get hurt, except you miss out; you miss out on falling in love, on experience, on story-telling.
I would know.

I’m a dreamer, I stay awake at night playing out unrealistic scenarios, or imagining life in an alternate universe. Still, if I want something I’ll go after it, I’ll work hard for it, I don’t dream and wait for it to come to me, but dreaming itself is one of my guilty pleasures. I take a lot of pride in it, imagining lots of things like life in a different time, the roaring twenties or swinging sixties, or of myself where I am dancer and only speak Spanish or French, living in a tiny studio apartment in the city and go to weekly poetry readings.

I’m an optimist as well as a realist, like most of us are & reality will always hit, but my mind wanders into corners perhaps it shouldn’t and far and beyond what is sane. I like that about myself, I’m not afraid to admit that; the fact I can look at something simple, and see it being more than it is, or more as it should be, or that I ask questions that have a thousand opinions except never an answer. I genuinely want to know of someone’s darkest thoughts, their passions, what drives them, why something hurt them. I crave, I crave everything; good conversation, walks at 2.a.m, endless knowledge, thick books. It’s not greed, only excitement and interest I swear.

However with myself, I can barely let someone in, I won’t let someone love me, I do a good job of cutting them off before, easing them into the opposite direction that they'd simply think it fizzled out, no questions asked; it’s not their fault, ‘it’s not you it’s me’ that’s the cliché, but oh so true. I’m so aware of the story book version, the characters we all know, the rarity of true love and adventure, that I can’t bear to set myself up for disappointment. I’m not scared or shy of it, I’ve just come to let myself believe it’s almost too good to be true whenever I get close. As if it’s not really real. So typically, I bolt. I get a sweet taste of it and run, a lot of us do it, we get so close and freak out entirely. I lose myself in stories, films and comparisons of others, that I forget to let myself experience them myself.

Do you?

with love, kat

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