Unusual Ruminations

There is nothing wrong with me. It's just that the righteous feeling I have cultivated since childhood has stayed with me until this day. So, each time I encounter you, or more precisely, a version of you in another person, I hesitate. I cannot break free from the usual loop of thinking about you, searching for you, and for so long imagining myself being with you.

Beyond that, there is nothing but the authority of time, which strips away all my feelings, and once again, I am back. Back to my comfort zone where all emotions fade. I am no longer myself, and you are no longer yourself. I remain in the void, and everything that once was is no more.

There is nothing to discuss. Endless hours and days just slip away. Here I am, in the middle of my physical age, and the question has arisen once again. So, I dictate, my thoughts fragmented, my sentences half-formed, incoherent in a way that feels disconnected.

I am disconnected from the conversation that surrounds me. I rarely think about myself, for myself. Dimmed by the legacy of others, I search for some resonance in their words, their actions, the sounds, the visual cues, the aesthetics of a heart beating, and beating—to go on.

What are the chances of finding oneself in others, and of others finding this self so insecure in its own existence? The need to be complete in more physical reality is so daunting. I am hopelessly outmatched in every social encounter, as the musings of society simply grip me and throw me aside like a ragged doll, like a child's tantrum that lasts for a moment. And like a child, I try to soothe the wound of loneliness.

This imperfect self, striving for attention for so long, only to be embarrassed when it is received. What's the point of being the star of one's own show when all the values that once mattered are no longer important, no longer as succinct in their true intentions, a thin veil stripped away to reveal the ugly inner self? There, all that remains is a featureless canvas, with little dots splashed together—the thing we call life. Fillers in the unending déjà vus, the quietness jarring without a tinge of belief. The question no longer arises anymore.

The only thing that exists is this gulf between myself and the rest of you—cut off surgically. I wish I could be welcomed by the warmth of human connection, yet it always gets cut short as flight mode takes over. The more I try to be, the less I become. The more I attempt to become myself, the more I sabotage that part of me by my own hand.

That hand is dealt by righteous anger—so strong that it overwhelms all external stimuli. And here, in silence, I can only vent these musings, leading to the inner dialogue that I write, merely to be recorded. Nobody cares or needs to read it. It just is... a single smudge of my passing before I fade from nothing to nothing.

All the dreams, hopes, and longings for others remain as irreconcilable as the ocean that separates us... forever.

All I have is this silence and your dimming image, your whisper echoing no more—a heavy solidity closing the open wound. All resemblance fades into the subconscious, leaving behind only a longing—a deep sigh for meaning, to be part of the grand aesthetics of the artist that is you.

You, smiling in happiness without my presence in your life—it is worth it. This loneliness, I justify, as I take a breath of oxygen before the darkness swoops me into its embrace.

Adieu.

(PC: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/13651605114654833/, grammar corrected by Chatgpt)