I analyze too much, I obsess about the outcomes, but, let's face it, reality is hardly never as poethic as the movies. Reality has always that slightly pathethic aura. In the end, I always find myself wondering: This lightening isn't pretty enough, the words came out in a very clumsy way, my hair was all messed up. I try to find those perfect moments. But they are never there. At least not in the way I pictured them.
So, often I decide not to care. But it never lasts, you know? Because, the thing is, I do care... and I try to be, as hard as I can, invincible and cold blooded. But that's just not my nature. I'm a romantic, childish idealist. And I care for things... and I can't be reckless, no matter how hard I try to.
I just believe things should be felt. But I can't feel it unless I think about it. That's the problem. I can't just feel. That's why, I'm not explicit about my fellings at all. That's why I keep on hiding them. I always hide them because I can't stop thinking of what I might loose, I can't stop guessing the outcome. And I just can't stop picturing the worst case scenario.
"Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn't the world, it wasn't the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don't know, but it's so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it."
This is from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, by Jhonathan Safram Foer, one of my favourite books ever. And it describes my mood for the moment.
I just can't stop feeling, that, unless I stop wondering, it's all going downhill.