Confession: I have a criminally intense interest in people. At the utmost general, trying to understand people and their thoughts and behaviours is why I'm studying what I am studying now. In the utmost specific, I have a drive to know about the processes and history of ones closest to me.

Problem: I don't like committing nosey acts, but nor do I understand the socially acceptable line between caring/casual inquiries about close friends and snooping. Perhaps my tendency to keep to myself plays a part.

Fear: But the intense curiosity about closer others sometimes eats away at me. I do not have much in the way of drama and life (and I seek to avoid it), What if I lose control over my curiosity and went too far?

No, absence of awareness of my inquires should not be a justification.

Misdemeanor: My legs shook with guilt of my weakness and tightening of innards from the blurred boundary between sadness and pull of curiosity, tinged with jealousy of more the capability of feelings and daring and than of the history themselves.

Sometimes I wonder if there's really something differently constructed about me in that minute way that makes it hard for me to truly be comfortable talking about the important things. Put enough trust in others to being understanding, non-judgemental, and believe that they care enough. Because most often, there's always this twinge of mistrust from me, projected onto others.

I fear non-acceptance when I am unattached.
I fear loss and instability of that sole source when I am.

Invariably, everything becomes a quest about the inadequacies of the self. Properties, behaviours, abilities, capabilities...there's always a lack of a certain something.

And always with an oxymoronic fear and disgust about my egoistic and juvenile preoccupying thoughts.