I've been struggling. The ghosts haunt my steps, they troop after me like a marching band, loud and obnoxious, tearing through the vastness of my mind.
As I grow older and as I cast my eyes across the segment of the human race and reflect on where life has taken me, I wonder what I am missing inside. I mourn the lack of passion, the lack of familiarity with another human being. I am a stranger tossed by the sea of loneliness, forever thirsting for the warm embrace of sandy beaches and the sun upon my back. I wonder, because I am curious. How do I long for something I have never had? The very question torments me. How did Love pass me over?
I've been a student of people observation. I hear of experiences, I seek knowledge on people in relationships. There is a theory that says it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Is that true? My own thesis is heavily reliant on the fact that it is not. How can anyone prove or disprove this? Like being able to roll your tongue, you are one or the other. And yet those who have loved and lost would have the advantage of being closer to the truth because they can then imagine what it is like.
I have a runner's body, toned and slight. I have short dark boyish hair, brown eyes - deep and sad. My reluctant smile appears from time to time, across the mask that is my face. My shoulders droop, as if I carry the weight of the world upon it, and I swim within a fathomless well of silence. I am a listener, not a talker, and people tell me their stories. What is it about me that repels? What is it about me that is so unloveable? Why do people use me and discard of me like a piece of worthless garbage? Is a certain birthright of unworthiness engraved into my DNA, so entrenched that it belongs to me as much as my limbs belong to me?
When I was younger, there wasn't any doubt in my mind that I knew I was a lone wolf. I knew there was something dangerous and toxic about me. Needing someone was a weakness. Having a family was loathsome to me. After all, my only experience with "family" was horrendously negative. I would never bring a child into this world for fear that I would do the same terrible unspeakable things to this child, my own child. I still have that fear. I still think it would be too much of a risk for me to ever raise a child. But that doesn't mean I don't miss the connection between a mother and her child.
If circumstances were different, if I were born somewhere else, a child of someone else, perhaps it would all feel right. That is what I miss. That is the core of my agony.
And yet I can't help feeling as though I have missed the plane. Here I am standing pressed against the window, with my bags all packed, watching the skies as the object in the sky becomes smaller and smaller, finally disappearing among the clouds and tears stream down my face. It's too late. It's simply too late.