the other side of the glass // i didn't know how to describe the past few days so here's some poetical nonsense

7:00 AM

it's not sadness. it's not depression. (i don't think.) it's not a terrible horrible awful loneliness -- most of the time -- creeping into my head and running down my spine and soaking all my skin in cold water.

it's just...the feeling of being outside.

of the world.

of the party,
of the group,
of the joke,
of the moment.

of myself, sometimes. like those moments in dreams where you're looking at yourself and making yourself move all at the same time. just like the dreams, too, it's not usually scary. it's just that feeling of being outside, and the strange, calm sense of watching. my own thoughts keep spinning and my body's a hundred miles away on the other side of the glass.


maybe i'm in it all day. maybe the moments creep up on me. but i blink, and there i am, that curious strangeness floating in my head. i watch --

my hands on the steering-wheel
my voice agreeing (don't i sound strange, like a little girl all over again, like i haven't changed a bit)
my feet walking into work
my own face in the mirror, and me looking at me looking at the mirror, and it's "inception" without dicaprio because that would make it make slightly more sense.

i don't mind. i don't hate it. i just watch, and think.

and think.

and think and think and think and think and think and think and think and think and think and think and

(there are too many thoughts to think, and most of the time they go round and round and round.)

sometimes i'm just staring at the wall. bastille lyrics soaking into my head. and i feel cold, and i feel numb, watching myself watch the wall while all the while my thoughts keep spinning and my head spins with it to try to keep up. i think about books. and people. and God and life and death. and i think, and think, and think. (i don't mind, i don't mind, i don't mind. i'm not afraid.)

and i think that even when i touch things and they feel like things, it's hard to feel like part of the joke. it's hard to reach out and touch people in the same concrete way that i can touch a book or my fork or this keyboard. i like people, and i like talking and laughing, and all that extrovert energy withers away inside of me if i'm alone for too long, but i don't like being part of people. and i don't know how to be a "group".

i think i like watching people more than anything. laughing and throwing thoughts out there for people to digest, but not really talking. it's easy to talk about people and things and tomorrow's events, and it's easy for that to wash over my head like one big salty wave. if i try to keep up, i'm going to get sucked out to sea and i won't touch ground anymore.

i like to touch people one by one.

i like to make them laugh.

i like sharing little intimate moments.

i like it when i'm tuning everything out and they're talking over my head and right through me (kind of like the ghosts i don't believe in) and i can touch something and feel it. cold metal. the scabs on my arm from some forgotten incident. book pages, even though paper on paper on paper makes my skin crawl. the little details that hit me with startling clarity.

i like it when i'm outside of things.

(and i don't. i don't at all. and sometimes i wish i could be a little less...whatever this is.)

i'm not sad,

and i'm not alone.

i just missed my connection somewhere.

(maybe that's okay.)

"...I was...looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life." (The Great Gatsby) 

(I wanted to try something new today and so here you are, a thought that's been in my head and is hopefully now put into non-cheesy words.)


  1. first off, I would read a book full of your poetical style. really. it's so real. authentic. I love it.

    second off, it's weird being human. it's weird changing and being a paradox and wanting stability and consistency because that's what we were made to want but when we can't find it in ourselves it's just weird. I understand so well what you're going through -- I don't relate to your specific feelings, but I do understand what it's like to feel them. *ends awkward rant and hugs*

    1. *hugs for the 'awkward rant' I'm so glad you don't think it's lame :P

  2. I've also felt very disconnected this semester--it's hard to explain, but, on one hand, I do want to connect with people and be part of a group, and on the other I almost don't, because genuinely connecting with people is exhausting. I get that feeling of being not quite there, observing, but never really participating. It's weird, and sometimes depressing, but if it helps any I think it's more of a state of mind than an accurate description of the way others see you.

    1. Exactly. I'm not sure, exactly, how to describe it simply, so I'm glad I captured it a little bit better this way. It's so strange and I don't necessarily feel sucky about it...just odd.

  3. Wow. Aimee, you amaze me once again. *gives you cake* The way you wrote that, I had a sense that maybe to were talking about yourself (And now I know you totally were.), but I wasn't quite sure so it kinda gave me a sense of mystery within the mystery you were writing about. ;) hmm...a mystery inside a mystery...sounds like Inception. :D I love that movie!

  4. shoot.

    you did it.

    thats it. thats what I felt for so long and whenever I tried to explain it I would fail and you just captured it. that weird dissociative feeling of being outside yourself and not being able to get out of your own head.

    I think this is my favorite thing you've ever written. I love it. I love it I love it I love it.

  5. This is really beautiful. And so relatable too. I mean, maybe I can't relate to all of it, but definitely the feeling of being outside. I love being friends with people and sharing our lives and having really deep conversations sometimes, but I'm really bad at being part of the group. I'm still not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing or just how I was made... Thank you so much for writing this though. It's so good and I would love to read more of it. =)

  6. You know, you always say you don't have a very poetic style, but honestly this is one of the most beautiful things I've read. It's so emotionally complex, but you communicated everything clearly. It feels very real.
    I often feel disconnected like that, but in a different way. More despairingly. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's just part of my personality to be oddly outside of whatever's going on, but I've always fought it. Your perspective on the feeling communicates this sense of contentment within the storm, and it's amazing.
    Anyway, you are way more poetic than you give yourself credit for. I'd love to read more of it if you ever feel like posting more!

    1. Aghhh thank you so much! It's weird...usually I feel like I should be more concerned by this, or see it as more of a bad feeling, but I just...don't. And that's a big part of it.

  7. *thinks and thinks and thinks about the best way to respond to this because it is beautiful and eloquent and my own thoughts refuse to be so*
    I think you just said /everything./

  8. You are never again allowed to say that you're not poetic because THIS IS BEAUTIFUL.

    Like wow, I can relate to it so hard. I feel like you just crept into my head and pulled out all of the thoughts, wording them 914719834x more beautifully than I ever can. I have no words. <3

  9. THIS. I know the feeling of being outside... at school, with my family. It's weird and strange and not always right. My favourite part of this was the part about touching lives. Like you, I think I'm an extravert, but I don't always like being in big groups and I often feel shy, which some people say doesn't happen to extraverts, but they're wrong. I don't know how to say it, but I love, love, loved this. Aimee, you are a pretty good writer <3 :)

    1. Thank you so much! It's such a weird feeling, and I go through stages with it (it's better this week, for example) and I've never been quite sure how to approach it.


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