questions met with cold stares.
One parent alive, but dead to me.
The other alive, dead, and too far to reach; not that it would matter.
I spent my early years the victim of abuse from all angles.
It's like a fixing a bug in a computer program, a 'knock' error.
You fix one thing, but it shows up without warning somewhere else.
Just when I feel like I've plugged all the leaks in my persona, one springs up.
I try to explain psychosomatic pain to others...
Searing memories that can tear the world of anyone else asunder...
But the truth of the matter is, these are mine. For me and only me to know.
And I like it that way. Noone else knows these moments I endure.
I remember when things made sense. I was an awkward kid.
I spent my time trying to better understand why the world hated me, and no girl would love me.
But then things changed. Sometime around when I was 18, the world because so.... beautiful.
I didn't have any enemies, there was no popularity contest, there was no fear of rejection.
All there was in the world was.... concern of where I would eat or sleep. Most of the time that settled itself.
Not to say that I didn't spend my fair share of nights in the gutter, or on the porch of the Cigsya house.
But the abuses of the past were gone. I didn't have to worry about being molested; or left totally, utterly, alone.
My days were full of sunshine.... or at least in hindsight.
But as the sun set on the apex of my life, I stood wondering, is this it?
Every woman I'd met had just fallen into my lap, every love I'd known was one of convenience and not of actual attraction.
But this is what I wanted. Looking back I ask myself if somewhere along the line I might have cheapened who I am.
I'm left wondering what I would be like if I held myself to a higher moral standard. Or had some basic ethical foundation.
But here I am. 25 years after my unceremonious birth. Not happy, not sad... just here. Existing.
Everyone seems proud of me. Perhaps because I can string together words better than they could.
Or perhaps it's because I'm finally "doing something with myself".
But what does that really mean? I ask myself over a cup of tea. What am I making, what is my goal?
I come back to the same answer over and over again which leads into something else entirely.
I want to be successful, I want to make money, and I want people to love me.
But then I ask: "Is money a measure of success, or is happiness?" Because if happiness is the measure...
Then I've been weighed and measured and I'm left wanting.
And if money is the goal, then what is it that I desire that I don't already possess?
I have somehow amassed the affection of a few young ladies that are way beyond my league.
What confuses me most about this is that I've done it without money... so the money and the affection thing seem to be relatively unnecessary. The success might already be taken care of...
I don't have anything so to speak of; but I don't want any more than I have. Just books.
But for some reason, despite my equilibrium, intellect, and choice of mates, I'm still utterly alone.
I want so badly to understand what it is inside me that's spoiling everything else.
I want to rip it from the depths of my gut where it resides and feel it pulse in my hand as I squeeze my lifeblood from it.
But perhaps this is another issue with being the sum of my parts. That some of my parts are rotted and dying.
Some of me; is just not fit to continue on.
But in the end, I keep on keeping on. I keep moving. Not because I want to, because I need to.
I keep doing.... something. In hopes that if I do it I'll feel something.
I find myself standing in water holding electrical appliances wondering if I'll finally feel a spark.
Because sometimes it's easier to think that the only time I'll feel alive is when I'm dead.
I wish you could wrap your arms around me and make me feel alive again. But soon it would go away, even if you stayed here.
And I think that it's me that needs to come to understand that you couldn't accept who I really am anyways.
Soon I'll have to go on, and even if there's no footprints in the snow that lead you back to me, I'll be waiting.
Because even though it might not mean anything to you, I hold those moments dear.