Loneliness creeps like a plague, it’s silent but permeates everything it comes across mercilessly. I look at it in the eyes, it looks back at me and whispers it’s enchanting words:
”You don’t need anyone but yourself” “Remember how they hurt you” “This is the cost you have to pay to be able to live freely”
¿Freedom? ¿Does it even exist?
¿Do I even truly want it?
Well, to be honest, I don’t think I know a thing about life. Life doesn’t know much about me either.
I’m still trying to figure out how to live and what it all is even about.
I don’t think I’m the appropriate person to give advice in this case, but to be fully frank, I don’t really believe anyone is.
Maybe this it’s what it’s all about, the process of trying to figure out what makes your life worth living for.
I understand we’re all are looking for answers, and living by other people’s words seems easier and more comfortable, but that sounds like a pretty empty existence to me.
All I can say is that we’re all equally lost, and to me, that is the most comforting words that could be spoken.
I hope that gives you the courage that you need to seek out your own answers.
Disgust.
I’ve grown familiar to this feeling over time, pure hatred at the reflection that looks back at me.
Why? Why do you apparently contain so much of my worth? I’ve never agreed to this.
Why does your existence restrict me like this? I wish to be perceived, just not as you.
I’m much more than you, you do NOT define me. Why do other people fail to see that?
Why do I fail to see that?
I wish to be free, free from my own body. Free from judgement.
I could observe my foundation, what maintained my whole being, the evidence of the passing of the years, what gave me strength to continue growing freely.
At my sides I could discern the ramifications of my decisions with their consequences: there were stronger ones, as well as more delicate ones, some were just a slight breeze away from falling into oblivion, from them emerged those learnings that showed me how to live, my green hope, my leaves.
Yet, with confusion, I looked down and could not distinguish my roots, my beginnings, the reason for my being; what good was the rest if I could not even contemplate the reason for my existence, the certainty that I was a living being and not all was the result of my imagination? What was my place in this world?
What rooted me to this world?
