The Prison Of Wanting

What a pathetic state to be in, to want someone. To need someone. To need warmth. To need love. I write love as though I am writing a foreign word, a foreign curse, like a language I am trying to learn while knowing I can never become fluent in it. To constantly need someone to understand you is its own kind of prison, and I would not wish it upon my worst enemy. We all want someone to dig deeper into who we are, to learn about us, to know us better than we could ever tell them ourselves. We will never be able to confess everything about ourselves. We are too reserved for that, too self-conscious. So we want someone to figure it out, to notice the things we leave unsaid, to lead us down the path where confessions happen naturally. We yearn for the kind of companionship where conversations do not have to be forced. They flow like a river that has burst its banks. The kind of conversations that survive the night and witness the morning. Those are the best conversations because morning…