Bookmark #915

If my only qualm from life is that I am not easily understood, it is simply because I have done everything in my power to not be understandable. I can throw the blame around, but eventually, all fingers point at me in blatant accusation. I will be understood, as I have, more in my absence than my presence, which has always been, and shall continue to be filled with contradictions. My obsession with doing everything, with being everything I can, is so entrenched within all of me that by just being fully myself, I exclude myself, and if I want to sit in a place, I must do it in parts, crossing out a trait here, striking out a habit there, and only with this can I be among the others. And no, this is not some virtue, but I reckon this is gross limitation. And tonight, this is not washed over me. So, I must wash it down with a glass of wine or two.

How wonderful it would have been had I not had this urge in me, this urge that tells me to step aside and stand apart, and how synchronous should it have been as my only desire is to meld into the crowd, to merge into it and to not be a discernible thorn, a reluctant beacon, a poster-child of discord. But my very mindset, my very way of thought, and my life betrays my greatest desire. And I can but sit and think about it, and mull over it, and sometimes, cry over it. With a heavy heart, I must declare tonight that the person who claimed we are our worst enemies had no business making as astute an observation. And, of course, now the wine has set in, and my heart feels a little lighter; it is light enough to sleep, I reckon, and to begin again. The dishes are done, the people are met, the work is completed, and the words are written. What else is there to do? I ask myself this every evening right before I sleep. No answer. No answer at all. I do not know what else makes a person whole? Like a burgeoning green garden in the middle of March, I am complete, yet something remains. Only I have gotten used to this never-ending unease, this ever-present emptiness. To chalk it up to love would be a crime, to blame rusty regrets would be a fallacy, and to posit error would be plain wrong. Yet, the feeling remains. What can you do?

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