Wednesday, July 11th

He was afraid of alcohol. He didn't like the thought of being intoxicated— or having a substance pushing his mood to be something other than what it would naturally be.
He didn't like being around people who were drunk. He hated bars; hated the culture of them. He couldn't understand what the appeal was of a densely packed, alcohol-smelling, LOUD mass of people acting stupidly to get one another's attention. He didn't understand, because in that, there wasn't a heartfelt connection with another person. You didn't feel a calmer, deeper joy. Rather, you threw that away.
He could that appeal to people?, he wondered.
The mindlessness?
And why was he, apparently, in a real minority— at least in this country— in feeling this way?
....Why did he have to be so different than so many others?
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He wondered if he would always be alone. Being alone felt right to him. He felt most comfortable when not having to please anyone. He greatly wanted intimacy, but his tendencies, his actions, his repeated actions... they pushed intimacy— at least romantic intimacy— away.
There were two trajectories. One went burning hot and blazingly towards. The other kept it at bay.
It wasn't his fault! He knew it wasn't his fault. It was just... how his life had evolved. What circumstances produced.
He was trying very hard, though. He felt that people didn't appreciate that about him, and it made him want to cry.