I think I’ve spent most of my life wondering why I do the things that I do. Why I don’t do what so many others do. Why the status quo has always seemed like a cult to me, that I never wanted to join, that I shouldn’t join, because it would be the death of me if I did.
I hurt quite frequently. I am also, by turns, so euphoric it would not surprise me to discover I can, in fact, fly. When I say I hurt, I don’t mean that I am in actual physical pain. I don’t always hurt for myself. More often I hurt for others. As I am also ecstatic for others. I have such intense feelings raging through me, emotional forest fires, which never die out completely. The hot spots that the firefighters so diligently search for, because if you don’t put them out, another fire will erupt eventually; I’ve never found a way to put out my hot spots.
I have no wealth, likely never will, and I’m fine with that. I have very few possessions, though that hasn’t always been the case; I’ve moved around so often, not just in this city, but in this country, that I am the consummate pro at packing.
I am often unemployed, not because I lack skills, or ambition, or vision, but because none of those things mesh with what those who would employ me would have me do.
I’ve been alone far more often than I’ve ever been in a relationship, and have jeopardized every relationship I’ve ever been in. There’s a reason for that; I’m just not sure what it is. It’s a cliche, one I’ve only just come to realize: it’s likely I’ve been lonely my entire life. And I’m okay with that, too. Not because it’s preferable, but because that’s what I know.
But I am not unhappy. Never make the mistake of thinking that I am unhappy. I am not in a rut. I have grown, and changed, and grown and changed some more. My life is not stagnant, and I am neither staid, nor static. I have done things differently because I am different. And the vastness that is within me may, eventually, be filled. But I hope not. As much as it frightens me, it also sustains me.
I am my own reason for being.