Limerence is the descriptor.
The state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically experienced involuntarily and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of oneâs feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship.
Though perhaps it could apply to anything we have a strong passion for, including friendship, career, and maybe even lifestyle. Or maybe it is just always what is happening. Â With everything to some degree. There are so many things we have strong passions for that perhaps never or hardly satisfy the needs we want from them that it makes it paralyzing to act on it. Â Acting on your internal monologue is an attempt at translating an abstract collection of feelings into tangible words.Â
Fuck adjectives. They all mean the same fucking thing but we only hear them the way we want to because of how we have to. Â How do you even translate feeling? Is it done carefully through a composed script and choice words that help control or attenuate the extent of your intent or does stream-of-consciousness word vomit ever help? Â Maybe neither, both can still come across as plain as what is the problem; continual effort is continual pressure to exert more. Â The same can be said of the time, is it best to express positive feelings after positive experiences, or will they be too fresh and thus taint the sensation of rational self-expression? Â But what is the sense of doing it in vacuo when delivering yourself in such way is clearly pointed and planned. Â I am still having trouble deciding if spontaneous reaches or planned execution is better, youâre either too left brain or too right brain about it and if it is already being thought then wouldnât that already make it planned? Â Maybe stream-of-consciousness is better if you can handle the continual rejection associated with encountering unrequited sentiments regularly.
The scariest part of acting on limerence is perhaps not rejection, but the aftermath from it.  Shame followed by  the immediate ex post de facto tongue roll of statements back into your mouth.  Words that had just poured out in earnest had tasted like something so delicious to finally say, only to return back to you upon half-denial of your feelings.  The long pauses between awkward attempts at salvaging the situation are pitfalls of anxiety trains, tracing their way through new fears of their closest friends knowing you were foolish.  Anxiety presses you to look in their eyes to see if they are recalling your stupidity, with hopes of snatching it from them and undo yourself.  I feel so exposed that my heart is getting wind chills.  That is the worst: knowing you still have to be happy and half-robotic in the aftermath and move forward when anxiety has already shown itself in and is waiting to play.
If this was a perfect orb of Joy, then now it is just a little bluer. But the blue is all I can focus on and sheâs touching everything.Â
And now I donât know what to do to stop it.Â










