what do you want from this?

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I told myself I wasn’t going to write about love, or all that mushy-mushy stuff, for a while — at least not until I had written about my journey so far as an undergrad, or my career. You know, all that professional stuff. And you can’t entirely blame me. My inner Bimbola keeps saying, “There’s more to life than love or emotions. Write on real-world problems instead.”

But where do I throw all these feelings? I can’t seem to write about anything else. I’ve let it consume me so much that it feels like my default mode. Ask me anything, and I’ll probably find a way to link it to how we were made to feel — and not just feel, but feel deeply. To be passionate about anything and everything. To understand that feeling, actually feeling — is why we’re here on earth.

I know what you’re thinking, but I’m sorry to break it to you: this isn’t any different. This is my default mode. And this mode? I think it’s here to stay.

Okay. What’s actually going on here?

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked a simple question. Trust me, it’s so basic, but somehow it’s stuck with me as the days turned into nights:

“What do you want from this?”

I’ve asked myself this over and over again. And as someone who feels deeply — and I believe I do — this question has been surprisingly hard to answer.

I have this bad habit of gaslighting myself into thinking I don’t want anything more from certain friendships. And honestly? It doesn’t even feel like gaslighting anymore. I’ve analyzed how I feel, understood where I stand with this person, toned my hopes down, and kept going with the flow.

But that’s the problem.

I deceive myself into thinking I can go with the flow. But I can’t. I cannot go with the flow.

Maybe I do for a while. I play it cool. I deal with things I wouldn’t normally tolerate — all in the name of going with the flow.

But while my feelings are in a frenzy, that same question keeps coming back:

“What do you want from this?”

And for the first time, I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I can’t seem to answer it. Even the gaslighting method doesn’t work anymore. The words won’t come. My thoughts refuse to form a solid reason — not even an unreal one.

Well, maybe that’s the answer: the inner silence I feel. The uncertainty that somehow still screams certainty. That’s the answer. And that’s all the answer I need.