Sometimes you get a skewed toolkit on how to deal with people.
Those who no longer care once cared too much, I suppose.
I know how to placate and I know how to word things in a restrained manner but lately I’m wondering if there’s any benefit.
Know what you’re providing and know what you’re being provided with. I don’t want anymore crocodile tears, I guess. Are they?
Holding myself to a different standard or lower standards and worthless standards than those around, aren’t we trying to rise here? Why are we falling in the same potholes again. But then you just learn to not hold anyone accountable for anything much, or that you’re asking too much, or that you ought to remember what was already written and done before you bothered to take on a more morose attitude, a fickle one.
Affordance. Paper pride. How much more would resolve, sincerely? Drama resolution rarely brings clarity.
But that’s part and parcel for dealing with others. Yet what’s the point in dealing with others if no one “deals” with you? What are you getting out all of this? Something feels right about suck it up. No one cares and stop complaining – it’s just right. I want to bottle all this up in a freezer and let it wear some icesheets.
Not to paint myself completely ignorant; I know there are many moments in a past filled despicable that leave me some acceptance. Put up with me, put up with you. Putting up all the time and no more relaxed shoulders.
What’s the point of a friend if you’re tense? Or a home? I don’t know.
I don’t anymore. Or, that, deep down, I want it this way. I want this distance. I want these strained relations. I want, at times, to “bemoan” the alternative without actually genuinely trying a trek toward it for a pathetic display, a pathetic distraction, an excuse to not focus on the important stuff.
There’s a reality waiting where it’s otherwise: but honestly, softness sickens me. In particular, any softness from myself. It doesn’t matter if others are, I suppose.
The real ones with a fist of malice would know all of this writing is worthless though. Still, I am just writing out what reality is: an individual march. The more soft and fragile you become, the more you fall backwards. The more you get twisted.
I’m tired all paintings out there, everything hosting crooked ways and making one feel small and helpless. Sit up and deal with it; yeah ‘bootstraps’ are the best thing left. I never knew anything else. Whatever bitter tone comes with the word doesn’t discount the fact it is the only thing that works.