Negligence
There is a certain adventurousness, a certain desire for new experiences and new sensations, that is easy to fake but very rare to actually find in someone.
I get taken in a lot. I think someone's really a lot braver then they are, and then I find out that with me, they're in way over their head. I usually pay the price for this. I usually have to shoulder the load when, finally, my expansiveness, openness, and the fact that I have the strength to put myself out there mean that I have to clean up the mess when everything goes bad. They're too busy hiding under the bed.
I wish, just once, I would meet someone that was totally honest with me about what they wanted. That's all it takes. But really, most people don't know what they want, and if they ever figure it out, they sure as hell don't want to tell anyone.
This is the terror with which we confront one another every day. So afraid of both rejection and acceptance that we try to occupy some razor-thin space in between and end up nowhere.
There are so many things to be left behind, so many losses and heavy, wet bundles to throw over your shoulder. Get started now and maybe by the time you meet someone new the load will be light enough for you to take on more weight.
This walking death, this acquiescence to failure, has somehow become safer and more desirable than the alternative, the simple confrontation and purging that I like. I prefer to pull up through my chasmic center the dark weeds of my hangups, my loves and hates and attachments and perversities. To lay them clump after clump out in front of me, to dry out in the sun.
Let the weeds choke you if you want. Let the dark miasma of your own indecisiveness block your vision and swim in your head. This is what you wanted. Is this what you had in mind?