Why exactly do I keep writing here?

I sometimes wonder whether the reactions I observe are simply normal, or whether they indicate that some of my fears are founded; that my dealing of human relationships is far too clouded by personal insecurities for any of them to have the sort of depth that I feel others experience. As always I seem doomed to be at the pathetic end of the relationship, almost sycophantic in my praise of the other party, who shows but a mild tolerance to my presence. It is a burden to try and keep the flames still burning, and when I move into the territory that I am now, I wonder whether there is much point to it. Am I just shifting focus away from the real problem, that the diminishing flame indicates I have, yet again, suffocated the thing from the start? But I still dream on though, of having someone care enough to display the initiative to take that first step to resurrecting a dying relationship.

Many moons ago, I used what I thought was foresight and some connection to that realm of the beyond to proudly claim just what it was I was in this life for. Naturally, I said, it is to understand! Implictly, I suppose, I meant that I wanted to understand the grander fabric of it all. There was no scope for nihilism at that age, and so meaning was taken as an assumption (nowadays, I feel it need not be an assumption, but anyhow). I thought of that incident today and wondered whether I have done that version of me justice. I feel there have been gracious moments that have gone towards such a goal, but much remains unexplored and hanging, waiting for contemplation and comprehension. The naivete of those days I have lost a little, but I still hope the sentiment holds strong in the years to come.

Silent moments while sitting in the midst of a sizable crowd are special. A part of me uses them to affirm certain existential truths it feels it has unearthed.

For once, it didn't work! I tried to get rid of those thoughts of you by putting them in writing, but I just had to take one look at your friend to realize I was deluding myself.

Her cold eyes and my rapidly weakening smile...sometimes I wonder what this life is all about.

The poor recipients of my correspondence during some of the roughest days I faced. If only it were possible for me to track every one of them down, sit them down to the place my mind now inhabits, offer a cup of tea or what have you, and explain with simple words (plus some new ones I have since learnt) that I am not that person anymore. I cannot, of course, but I will still sigh and dream, only sometimes asking why people are so unfair as to pigeonhole each other.

Update '08: But then I read again the things I wrote, that I thought I meant at the time. I cannot honestly say that I would forgive such talk, even at this, my "mature" period.

"...I think it's a good idea - I actually want what I do to be criticized. Because if you do not want criticism, what are you doing here?", he asked, and all those around me smiled knowingly at his decidedly rhetorical question. I was the only one who took it to heart, however; and after a moment's thought, I calmly collected my belongings and quietly left the room.

If there is a meaning to it all, and if isolation in all its majesty can reveal to us truths we would rather not seek, surely such things need to be greeted with at least some level of humour, as though they were part of a cosmic joke perpetrated on us. A perennial shrug and chuckle can sometimes be an unassailable strategy.