Where do I go when I want to be alone?
I did not think this through.
Where did people go when they wanted to be alone?
Or did that need not exist?
I have no space of my own...how will I breathe?
In a park? But everyone will see. Me...my tears if I want to cry.
A cafe? The sea?
This city has too many people. breathing. talking. milling. being.
Where will I go? I need to exhale.
A bathroom? A closet? A corner? Under the bed.
Where can I hide till I want to be found?
Why do I have to stand by looking awkward and lost while others are engrossed in a world of conversation I have no interest in and nothing to add to?
Why do I smile so easy? Always, perpetually, politely smiling at unsmiling faces that look through, look past, reducing it to a fake, glassy baring of teeth...a frozen grimace.
Am I uninspiring, unimpressive, bland? Who are you to judge me and why should I strive for your attention? Why do I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of anonymity, quicksand homogeneity, choking down the bitter bile of mediocrity...silently.
Am I the only one with a secret? I have inside me a mad, crazed banshee, gagged and bound. What is this need to hold on to my sanity, clinging on to what is acceptable, normal behaviour, when every last nerve and sinew is crying out for pain, more pain. External pain to dull the hoarseness from all the screaming inside.
Is my pride misplaced, confused, undeserved? The world is beautiful, mysterious, intense, unending. But where is my place in it? A dark cavern under a tree, with sewage lines running overhead, vile but safe.
What is real? Who is real? Am I real? Am I wrong and the whole world right? Am I lost and everyone else found?
How do I create when inside there's no sunshine, only thick, burying, strangling fear. Can I create out of fear? I see visions of supreme beauty, of butterfly wings glinting in the sun of rolling crashing deep blue waves of endless meadows and shining rivers of gnarled wise old trees telling stories of children who ran wild in the woods which held the promise of laughter of fairies and magic and everlasting joy. But I blink and the vision is gone.
The world is as it was - where love and friendship is conditional, fleeting, unreliable, judgmental. Where people are as they were, immersed in conversation that flits and floats, skimming over the tree tops. And I'm not invited. I'm left in my hole unable, unwilling to join in the flight of the free. You've found your wings and I've lost mine.
