I'm a textual being. Oh, words and letters and exclamation points, I adore you. I like it most when I imagine a scene of text. It's usually a gently active and colorful, curvy picture in my mind that will spark some electricity.
But as actual life follows, it's like I'm rudely awakened from my textual reverie. Therefore, often times I try to get back into my imagination rather than intimately live the inevitable reality which is much less romantic or creative.
Worse yet, if none of my imagined scenes has surfaced at all, it seems nearly impossible or else incredibly time-consuming to gain warmth, especially if quality interaction is dismissed in favor of, say, a black box with moving, tantalizing pictures in it. And, I might add, nothing quells flames like a lack of mannish expressiveness or else an inability to fully relax and trust on my part.
What happens, then, is that I sacrifice in order to appease reality. Sometimes I wonder what an actual miraculous, hair-raising event would be like. I'd know if I experienced it, right?
Perhaps it would help if I were much different. If, for example, I liked an activity such as manual labor. Maybe then I'd focus more on doing rather than rolling around inside my imagination. However, so far the idea only intimidates me and makes me edgy for reasons that are maybe buried in my subconscious somewhere. Or my body's not made for it.
Anxiety. It does a body bad. I think when the emotional intimacy tank is too close to empty, nervousness or rigidness automatically ensues. I'm not completely afraid of real familiarity—in truth, I strongly desire it—but
I require plenty of reassurance and need my inner depths to be genuinely pursued before fully embracing it. I'm at a loss as to how to realistically warm those embers. So far nothing I've tried seems to have any effect and maybe that means it's not really my job. I've begun praying out loud within masculine arms a couple times a week and that gives me hope.