Wine stains are hard to wash out

This will probably sound trite, and slightly emo. Sorry.

What makes us go to the darkest parts of who we are? What makes us think the worst of ourselves, or of others? What makes us seek validation outside ourselves, when we know everything should be in place? We have the good job, the good people in our lives, and still there's something that pulls us down from that white fur-lined slot called comfortable?

It's Thursday at 8:38, I just got home from a wine tasting with a brilliant group of women, and I feel like that red wine poured down my throat and so deep into my soul that my whole insides are stained a darker red. Either that, or the wine pulled back the thin layer of rational thought that was protecting me from myself.

Is it capitalism? The idea that what we have is never enough, that there's always something else we could have, something else we should have, that leaves us empty even after a perfect social interaction?

And then of course, I attach it to the unattainable. I've started a secret admirer correspondence with someone who has absolutely no idea who I am, which is so completely safe for me, because even if he rejects me, he'll never know who I am. Simultaneously, this supplies me with an outlet for whatever jagged feeling that's stretching out my pores trying to escape. It's like a longing that I want to have, that feels good and awful at the same time. I feel longing and know that whatever semblance of love I feel for this person will go unfulfilled. That's comfortable somehow, because I can control it. I realize now that it's not about finding someone. It's about accepting the fact that finding that someone is completely out of your control, and no matter how I try to manipulate that, it will not get me closer to finding that someone. That someone will find his way here. It will happen, as all things do, in there own time. I'm not advocating fate of course, but just the natural course of things, if those two are different.

And the other weird thing about this feeling is, is that it not only stems from my singledom, it also stems from a feeling like I am in some way intellectually inadequate. I've not felt like that in a long time. But now I am surrounded by writers, brilliant fucking writers, who know exactly how to express themselves with these words, with these letters I so often struggle with. Words that are my friends and enemies all in the same phrase. I want the thing, whatever it is that switches on in these people that makes them see things in words, only I don't want to envy. I just want it to be. I want that part of my brain to switch on, and not to struggle to get out a sentence that I'm proud of.