In a Safe Distance

I have come curiously close to the end, down
Beneath my self-indulgent pitiful hole,
Defeated, I concede and
Move closer
I may find comfort here
I may find peace within the emptiness
How pitiful

(Reflection, Tool)

I feel like this is going to be a sort of confession, starting with this somewhat weird quote from Tool. Why Tool? Because Tool is the kind of band that doesn’t only sing about love. Being the weird person I am, I need slightly weird lyrics to express the things I can’t find the right words for.


The thing I’d like to say, is that I do find peace in emptiness. You know, the kind of emptiness when you’re not all too close to people. When there’s distance. I like distance, even with friends. I need to get away from them every now and then, just to become myself again, just so I don’t lose my mind. Let me give you an example. When you have this really close friend, and you’re watching a movie together or whatever, and suddenly the friend says: “You know, I fell in love with you as soon as I met you.”


That’s the kind of moment when I just want to walk away, slowly, backwards. Let’s just pretend nothing’s happened, okay? Let everything just become normal again, like I want it to be. Great. Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s happened, goddammit.

Now, this didn’t happen to me, but perhaps it makes it easier to understand what I’m trying to make clear. The friend in this ‘story’ suddenly behaved different from what I expected and wanted. Even when people are annoying, I much prefer them to be annoying all the time, just because they are what they are supposed to be then. They are behaving normal. Normal is good.

And what about friends? It’s actually the same for them. Of course you know more about your friends and they know more about you, but it’s more fun when you both pretend like you don’t know all that. Which is a natural reaction, you can’t always think of everything the other person has told you once. But overall, they can’t come too close either. They should also be what you want them to be – their normal selves.

People say I’m introvert, but that’s just because of this all – I don’t want anybody to come so close. The less they know about me, the better. Of course you can’t hide everything, and friends are supposed to be there for you when there are problems and stuff. But they shouldn’t know everything. You are supposed to trust friends, I know, but it’s hard. Somehow I don’t trust people in general. They can smile at you one day and stab you in the back the next one. However much they say you can tell them everything, they might just laugh at you the next day. I don’t know. I have a hard time really trusting anyone. With some people it’s easier than with others, but still. Mostly I regret it when I open up my heart and say what is going on, what I really think.

Internet is different. I can say whatever I want here, because I won’t see anyone of you. There’s always the distance I need. We don’t run into each other every day. You can’t look at me and then think of what I said last night, last year, once. You only see the screen with my words. I only see the screen with your words. No real life dealing with each other. It makes it easier to speak my mind.

There’s a line no one should pass. I’m here in my own world and that’s fine. I don’t want company in here. I can deal with this myself. You can look through the windows and have a glimpse of what it’s like – but no more than that. You will have to leave me alone at times, you will have to accept that there will be moments I will talk less to you because you got to close. Deal with it. That’s how my mind works…

Who’s that girl living here?

Who’s that girl who lived here? Who’s that girl who bought those books and read them – over and over? Much like the magazines? They’re piled up in a corner of the room. Does she still read them? And there. Who’s the girl who collected those things? The gems (woaw, pretty) and the little stuff, figurines, stones, shells. Who’s that person with the pink curtains and that bed? Let alone that writing desk? Did she write these diaries and poems? Truly?

What kind of person is that?

And those CD’s, those clothes, even the wall paper. What am I supposed to think when I see this? Is this really representative for her character? Imagine the person living here. With a family. Being at ease in this place, being herself here. Knowing this room all too well and liking everything in it. The jewels she’s much attached to. Carefully chosen and bought, often worn. The pictures on the wall. They’re nice, yes. I admit that. The sheets on the bed. Just everything. I walk around here and wonder who she is. What she thinks. Would I like her?

I open the door, the door she has to know so very well. I walk down stairs. The carpet she’s seen since she were born and came to live here. The steps. The lamps. I open the door to the kitchen, something she must have done a thousand times already. Her family is seated there. One empty chair.

And I walk straight to it, going the same way since ever, and sit down on that chair.  I sit there, as always, eat together with my family, looking outside to the sight I’ve always seen.

And I wonder how much I’ve changed in such a short period of time…