When Words Fail

I deal in words.

I'm a lawyer. At least, I will be one, eventually. Word choice, syntax, juxtaposition, arrangement... all are incredibly important in my chosen profession.

I'm a writer. At least, I used to be. I used to chronicle my life-- if somewhat cryptically-- online. I used to wax poetic, paint fiction, drip satire-- for class, for friends, for strangers, for myself. Life and circumstances changed that. I haven't been in the habit of expressing myself this way, except very sporadically, for years.

I'm a dreamer. At least, I think I am. I imagine all sorts of crazy scenarios, hope and dream, and build elaborate castles in the sky.

Here's the kicker, though. Words fail me. Often.

I know it's strange. I'm not particularly conceited, but I'll admit: I have a way with words. But only when I've had a chance to organize and edit them, when I can hide behind a computer screen or a sheet of paper... never in conversation, never in face-to-face interaction. I can never seem to articulate the way I feel, positive or negative, to anyone, regardless of how much I care about or for them. The problem, of course, is that no one would ever assume or guess this about me: I like socializing; I am a decent conversationalist and a pretty good listener; I write well. And yet, the reality is that I'm actually tremendously awkward. And I, sometimes, to my great unhappiness, hurt and destroy people-- people I care about-- simply by being me: oblivious, awkward, unable or, maybe, unwilling to express myself or to confront anything in life.

I don't like this about myself. And it's been hard to come to terms with it. It's taken a long day and night of reflection, baking, and complete shirking of schoolwork. The immediate tomorrow might suck, but, hopefully, the "tomorrow's" of the future will be the better for my uncomfortable journey toward self-realization.

If you (plural) ever stumble across this, in whatever capacity, please know this: I'm sorry.

More than I can ever say.

:\

For the record, this isn't what I want, either. I'd do things your way if I could...

Disarming

You... are amazing.

The way you've come to know me is nothing short of incredible. You understand everything I say and, more importantly, everything I don't. You can take one look at my face and know exactly what's going on in my crazy, mixed-up head. You listen to me-- really listen-- when I want to talk, talk when I want to listen, and we stay quiet together when I'd prefer that instead.

With You, there is always a choice.

You... are disarming.

You have an easy grin, an easy sense of humor, and an easygoing personality (although you are not, my friend, by any stretch of the imagination, an "easy" character). Frankly, you are way too charming for your own good. I have told you things I've never told anyone before-- and all because you seemed like you genuinely, truly wanted to know. You don't let me dodge the questions. You don't let me retreat, let me hide.

With You, I feel free, unfettered... encouraged to be myself.

You... are confusing.

Sometimes, you blow hot; sometimes, you blow cold. And are you generally that perceptive, or do you save it for me? Or am I merely that obvious, and no one's ever bothered to look?

With You, I'm never quite sure where I stand or what to think.

You... are not exactly Mr. Right.
And I... am not exactly what you're looking for.
We... are not exactly meant to be.

But I'm glad I met You... even though I know I'll never be With You.