In the last thirty days, I've written my final first draft of Book 1 in the Rivermist series. It looks like it will be four or five books, though it could end up being more, depending on word count. We'll see. The fact that I'm writing again is life changing down to the very core.
I'm not saving any money whatsoever because I'm a self-indulgent child. Also, buying gas for a sizable pickup is pretty draining. The job is devoid of any lasting satisfaction beyond helping people solve momentary troubles and enjoying my coworkers.
In the last few months, though, I'm finding myself in a precarious position. Mostly self-reflection--I'm getting worse at it, I think--and the issues surrounding my uninterpretable heart. I don't know if I've never recovered or if the belief of perfect love between two who believe themselves to be humans is just gone.
I don't know how other people live. I don't understand attraction and what brings people together. I don't want to hurt anyone, and I don't want to reject anyone either. I genuinely love many people, and over time, I've developed deep affection for people, but romance? It's become a foreign concept. It seems like Platonic love is purer; romance too often seems like desperate wanting/demanding something from someone else. It doesn't have to be. I don't want it to be.
My heart and nerves are worryingly numb. I just don't feel things and physically, nothing seems to touch me.
I've been wondering for many years if I'll ever fall again, and I wonder if that sort of love can grow without that instant fated feeling. I don't want to be a fraud. No one deserves that. Disappointing someone deeply just seems inevitable, and I'm sorry. I don't know how to make it okay.
My thoughts seem to point in one direction, but I don't feel the things I think. It's probably ultimately for the best that I remain empty. I wish I could genuinely be what people want me to be, but I know there's no one I can really help or fulfill. I can share. I can enjoy. I cannot save. And I still want to.