I'd say that's that

I have been thinking lately alot about starting a project called "heart on the sleeve", in which I make a bunch of easily applied (read: velcro) patches that have simple emotional statements you wouldn't necessarily say out-loud, and affixing them to my sleeve as different emotional/ personal thoughts arose. I nixed the idea because its adorableness makes me sort of sick, plus I felt that explaining what you were trying to do would take longer than the application itself, and thus would detract from the overall impact of the action. It felt a little obvious, I mean.

I have been also thinking about starting a writing/reading series called "overtly confessional: sharing too much is caring too much" in which, yea, you could read stuff beyond journal entries... thoughts you think that are minute and inane and you would probably never write down in the first place. these little tiny, seemingly inconsequential moments of being. those thoughts you think that make you unique. But I haven't because I think I might be the only one who would want to read at it.

Both of these projects are excuses, metaphors, quick fixes, what have you, for having a crush. That is, I want to share myself with one specific person, but I specifically don't know how, and they don't know me, and its my habit, to have these intense feelings that lead to intense work/projects/trips/plans, these big dreams and imaginings and happenings and the "they" don't ever know that these fictional city-scapes and maps and dimensions and ideas are being constructed around them. Its my bad habit, because this distance is safer, and that constant rush of anticipation, of glances across the room, the agony and heart ache that adds such a silent drama to every chance interaction is addictive.

So I start heartsleeve projects and confessional rant nights. Because I have this energy set to explode. Because I want to share myself with someone, but I'll share me with the whole world instead.