I find myself in precarious state of mind, neither here nor really anywhere. I go through motions of day to day life peeling off pieces of myself day by day before looking in a mirror only to see myself somehow whole. What is this cruel sorcery to make me feel so embittered and simultaneously nostalgic for a life that may never have truly existed in the first place. I find myself reaching for a feeling that is never really there, and yet I continue to hope beyond my own belief. What am I saying as I look around at the abundance that my efforts have afforded my family and the things that I have accumulated over a couple short decades.
I am myopic, memories of rage fill me with thoughts of dread and something akin to fear. Fear of myself, fear of a consequence that may never come and yet I live on thinking, is this it?
I think not. I am a product of the life I have lived thus far and feel there is something I am meant to do but my path is as unclear as any I have ever tried to walk. Why this sense of foreboding and dread that lingers like a shadow nipping at my heels, driving me to run faster every day toward what I fear is nothing ahead but my own grave, and a path of compromises and broken promises to myself. I am ever remorseful for the life I could have lived and ever more grateful for the life I have ended up living.
The irony of my own state of mind and my ever-shifting points of view confuse even myself; yet I do not feel as lost as I may sound. I drive forward with a single-minded determination that belies the hesitation I feel in my heart and wonder if the thing I truly fear is being discovered for the fake that I am. I feel, I feel in the depth of my core and with every breath of my shrieking lungs. My heart aches with every beat for the would haves and the should haves of my life. I am surrounded by nothing but examples of how ungrateful I may actually be.
Happiness for others is nothing but an obstacle for me to overcome because their lives are a mystery to me. I find myself wondering what am I doing wasting my time on these thoughts? Only to answer myself, these thoughts do not consume your mind the way your work does or your family. These thoughts are ever present in the back of your mind only willing to rear their nasty head in the dark quiet of your isolation. Yet, I feel as though isolation is one of the things I crave more than nearly anything. The dreadful thought makes me cringe as I consider the nasty implications. Perhaps for now I will simply say that I am merely thoughtful and mindful of my age and feel nothing more than anyone else who has been through the amount of life that I have lived. Surely, I am not so unique to feel and think these things.
Perhaps I will put these questions to an open forum someday, but now I think they are fully open to misinterpretation to both myself and anyone else that would read this without the proper context, of which I myself do not even really possess in this moment in time.