The problem with being an extremist is that I have my ups; they're exuberant and bright. But I also have my downs; they begin softly and plummet to that place below the covers that we never go, in fear of never reemerging. In the ups, I reemerge: Forest for the trees, things look a little easier. But nothing feels easy.
It is for this reason that, even on my lightest days, I take life pretty seriously. I think I'm hilarious--but I don't know if that always comes across (so I take comfort in making myself laugh). And I think I get a lot of jokes (but some days I miss them...when the grey resting on my shoulders is heavier than a scarf but wraps around me just the same).
I am deliberate. Even when I'm wrong. I replay moments until they are seconds-spliced two times over. I have never put a toe in the water. Extremists don't waste phalanges...we go all in--or not at all.
So I'm convinced the reason I can't pick people up is because I don't know how to put them back down. Once I've put you on that pedestal, I'll keep you there, years after you've changed your name or your profile picture. It's probably too much pressure. I always expect too much from people who reek of lesser expectation. Who know who they are, who are happy with their choices. Once upon the pedestal, I tell myself that nothing stands in the way of the pedestal and the person but it isn't so instantaneous, outside the confines of my outstretched hand. And there is only so long a hand can be held before it makes yours pruney, from the sweat of a lifeline.
In a place where things are casual, there is middle-ground. No up, no down--no expectation. Just "hello." For me, a hello has never been just. I am a product of Jane Austen and The Babysitter's Club. We read into everything. I don't understand casual--so I try to fill it with importance. With weight. With more. And though heavy, I am determined not to put it down.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.