The Apparent Present.
There are sometimes when I feel totally and utterly alone, alone in this world, alone to face my problems by myself. At such times, I usually just sit on my bed and stare. I don’t stare at anything in particular. I just stare, into the abyss. No thoughts run through my mind as I stare, it’s like I’m barely alive. In some ways it actually feels kind of good, peaceful you know, because I don’t get to worry about anything, I don’t get to think about anything, I just stare. Then I feel something pull me back to the real world, the world of worries and problems, it’s funny, because for some minutes, I get to feel as if nothing matters. But things do matter. I am reminded of that as I am gradually pulled back to reality by that stabbing pain just beneath my collar bone, in my chest, that feeling I believe is called loneliness. I am reminded of how worthless I am. But the truth is I am not really worthless am I? Of course not. No one is ever truly worthless. We all have a purpose for living, a purpose for being alive. No one is insignificant. We are here for a reason. I think on all these, and suddenly, I feel something wet trickle down my face, a tear. I say out loud, “why am I crying?” I ask the question like I’m talking to someone. The silence that follows reminds me that I’m still here, and I’m still alone. How could I have thought I would get an answer, after all, I’m alone, unwanted, not needed. I begin to doubt myself. Maybe I lied. Maybe people could be not needed. Maybe one person couldn’t make a difference after all. At this point, I can’t control those tiny salty wet things anymore. What was just like the flow of a small lake became like the rush of a great river, an ocean even. I drag myself to the table, to the chair. I bring out this dusty notebook, a book I haven’t opened in years, and I begin to write. I do not know where the words come from. All I know is that I write. The tears show no mercy as they begin to pour out even more. But still, I write. I have always buried my sorrows in my writing. It brings me hope, brings me satisfaction. But dare I feel hopeful at this time? Hope has eluded me. There was no hope for me, I didn’t deserve it. But what if I do deserve hope? After all it is hope, it is meant for everybody right? Well maybe for everybody, but not just for me. I drop the pen slowly, meticulously, like it’s some sort of ritual. I look up to find someone that looked like me stare at me from the mirror. Who was this person? I didn’t recognize her. Was she the all loving girl, the one who cared about everyone, the one who was loved by all, the less lonely one? No. This wasn’t her. This isn’t her. This girl is washed up and alone. All alone, with no redemption.
Then I think to myself again. What did I actually do to think of myself in this way? What was so bad that I had no redemption from? Was this all in my head? Was I imagining all these thoughts? Was I imagining everything that I had done or that I thought I had done? Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I wasn’t washed up as I thought I was. But what did I know? I was just a tiny, little girl, who could barely lift a finger. But I was more than that. Wasn’t I? Something strikes me, an old memory I hear a woman saying ‘you are more than this. You are great and so much more.’ Or maybe I was still imagining that too. I wasn’t sure anymore. In fact, I couldn’t even remember a time when I was sure I was sure of anything. But deep down inside me, I know I remembered the truth. That small sentence, or rather sentences. Someone had actually said that to me. It wasn’t just some twisted idea or notion I had in my head. Sometime, in another life if not this, I meant something to someone. I was relevant. I was needed. Maybe I wasn’t always alone. Maybe I am not alone at this very moment. Maybe I imagined all of it, the loneliness, the pain, the tears, the writing, all of it. Or maybe I was imagining myself imagining that I was needed. Maybe it was still all a lie I made up to feel good about myself. Maybe. I hated that word.