I feel like I’m just running around blindly in the dark, trying to find a light to guide me through the dysfunctional mess of my life. The worst thing of all is that I think I’m alone, wandering in this long dark tunnel. Everyone else seems to know where they’re headed and what they want to do with their future. Me? I’m just desperately grasping on to whatever I can. Riding out the highs, crying through the lows. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m lost. Now what.
I learned that good things will always turn out bad. "Too much of a good thing is a bad thing" so they say, which makes so much sense to me.
Everything is mostly sweet in the beginning, mostly heartwarming and flattering. But once it’s too much, it’s going downhill from there. It’ll just turn sour or bitter, but definitely bad.
Just like love, just like stalkers… it’s always gratifying to feel some, to have some. Then again, sooner or later, they will live inside of you grow, multiply, and eat you like a fucking tumor. You’ll try to ignore it, pretend like it’s not there, and try not to let it’s existence bother you but you know that deep down, keeping it there will turn into a cancer, and it will eat you alive. Now what?
Point is, things get to situation where I can’t tell whether it is love, hate or obsession. I just don’t know anymore and I’m not interested to know anymore. But it’s getting out of hands and I’m just tired of all these mistreatments, all these unwanted attention I’m getting and of all these misjudgments and assumptions about me.
I won’t give anything for you guys to talk about or think about anymore. This is it, the end of my personal posts.
“I’m awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.”— Anais Nin From Fire: A Journal of Love
“You got to know your limits. Once is enough, but you got to learn. A little caution never hurt anyone. A good woodsman has only one scar on him. No more, no less.”— Haruki Murakami (Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World)
I was shooting a scene in my new film, No Strings Attached, in which I say to Natalie Portman,
“If you miss me, you can’t text, you can’t email, you can’t post it on my Facebook wall. If you really miss me, you come and see me.”
I began to think of all of the billions of intimate exchanges sent daily via fingers and screens, bouncing between satellites and servers. With all this texting, emailing, and social networking, I started wondering, are we all becoming so in touch with one another that we are in danger of losing touch?
It used to be that boy met girl and they exchanged phone numbers. Anticipation built. They imagined the entire relationship before a call ever happened. The phone rang. Hearts pounded. “Hello?” Followed by a conversation that lasted two hours, but felt like two minutes and would be examined with friends for two weeks. If all went well, a date was arranged. That was then.
Now we exchange numbers, but text instead of call because it mitigates the risks of early failure and eliminates those deafening moments of silence. Now anticipation builds. Bdoop. “It was NICE meeting u.” Both sides overanalyze every word. We talk to a friend, an impromptu Cyrano: “He wrote nice in all caps. What does that mean? What do I write back?” Then we write a response and delete it 10 times before sending a message that will appear to care, but not too much. If all goes well, a date will be arranged.
Whether you like it or not, the digital age has produced a new format for modern romance, and natural selection may be favoring the quick-thumbed quip peddler over the confident, ice-breaking alpha male. Or maybe we are hiding behind the cloak of digital text and spell-check to present superior versions of ourselves while using these less intimate forms of communication to accelerate the courting process. So what’s it really good for?
There is some argument about who actually invented text messaging, but I think it’s safe to say it was a man. Multiple studies have shown that the average man uses about half as many words per day as women, thus text messaging. It eliminates hellos and goodbyes and cuts right to the chase. Now, if that’s not male behavior, I don’t know what is. It’s also great for passing notes. There is something fun about sharing secrets with your date while in the company of others. Think of texting as a modern whisper in your lover’s car.
Sending sweet nothings on Twitter or Facebook is also fun. In some ways, it’s no different than sending flowers to the office: you are declaring your love for everyone to see. Who doesn’t like to be publicly adored? Just remember that what you post is out there and there’s some stuff you can’t un-see. But the reality is that we communicate with every part of our being, and there are times when we must use it all. When someone needs us, he or she needs all of us. There’s no text that can replace a loving touch when someone we love is hurting.
We haven’t lost romance in the digital age, but we may be neglecting it. In doing so, antiquated art forms are taking on new importance. The power of a hand-written letter is greater than ever. It’s personal, deliberate, and means more than an email or text ever will. It has a unique scent. It requires deciphering. But, most importantly, it’s flawed. There are errors in handwriting, punctuation, grammar, and spelling that show our vulnerability. And vulnerability is the essence of romance. It’s the art of being uncalculated, the willingness to look foolish, the courage to say,
“This is me, and I’m interested in you enough to show you my flaws with the hope that you may embrace me for all that I am but, more importantly, all that I am not.”
“When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”—Leonardo da Vinci (via heartmindspirit)
The other night you said you might try to kill that thing I love It is too strong for you, it is encased in glass and stone The other night you said you might try to kill that thing I love It is invincible, it is encased in glass and stone
“In the world we live in, what we know and what we don’t know are like Siamese twins, inseparable, existing in a state of confusion. Confusion, confusion.”—The Sputnik Sweetheart - Haruki Murakami (via kari-shma)