A shiver ran up my spine when I came to the realization that I will always miss something. An essence at large stood in my way yet it seemed so transparent as if it were never even there in the first place. I don’t know why I’d always felt this way but it was something worth aiming towards. Life’s mysteries left me dumbfounded and lost, unable to comprehend it as an ambiguous dream but more of a silent omen. A death sentence in itself. What if I truly looked into myself? Would I like what I saw? Would I take it upon myself to decide whether or not it could be worth it; being myself? I got profusely angry when I fell behind. Sometimes even, behind the people closest to me. More or less, I could be lying to myself if there wasn’t someone in particular.
He gives off the frustration of a child probing for answers, uncertain whether the answer has already been given to him in riddles. This cloud around him creates something largely in the way and yet so transparent. I can see through his dark fog that looks to the eye as a storm brewing but falls to the human touch like a brisk spring mist, something beautiful and warm when you stand near him and listen to the words escaping his mouth.
I envied him. I was pulled by the way he’s able to just simply think. There is no strain, there is no second thought and if there was, it’s to correct himself into a whole other world of philosophy. In this instant I knew it for sure that my emotions were at war for a split second. That lightening speed thump on the very end of my throat. It proposes itself to me as a feeling that I still can’t describe to this day. It’s like I’ve internally gasped and caught a whiplash, and this entire action takes place at the base of my throat. Then, finally, I’d settle down with an open-mind and listen carefully but never too carefully, as I know better, in an attempt to keep from falling into a pit of sadness at the truth of his words. I always think to myself, why can’t I think like that anymore? Why can’t I amaze people with my thoughts the way they’re written on paper? My soul is not one with my physical body and sometimes I feel this when I take in my sweet ganja. His thoughts amaze me, because they’re so diverse, and they pleasantly send off high notes into my eardrums. A human can soak up perspective as much as a sponge soaks up water, and, then, like cheap sponges, some of the water has to let go, get squeezed out. Unfortunately, I felt that I was in this position.
I look at him now. I look at this pompous jerk and realize he knows more than I do. But how? What circumstances would differentiate myself from who he turned out to be? Well there can be so many answers to that. I’ve never once thought highly of myself, but in reality, that’s probably because I was trained to act humble, and those who act humble usually get what they want. Not sincerely because you are truly humble, but because you know there comes reward. But no–I look at him. His expressions, his posture. It sickens me to see such a backwards house. It almost looks manipulative to me as if he were hiding something but makes it obvious like a grown man playing hide and seek with a toddler. It made you want to lean in but made you cautious enough to keep a defensive stance, ready to spring back from each attempted blow to your heart. You suddenly feel dirty like an enemy but warmer much like a friend. This about him is what makes me sick and almost a bit anxious. His thoughts seem too invasive for me to hear and so I feel as if they weren’t meant for my ears, and he’d actually begun chatting to himself. Sometimes, I find myself zoning in and out of conversations with him, because my mind knows when not to listen to information which he didn’t want me to think about later, but he still he wanted to release it out into the air.
Suppose that is one of my faults? I tend to do this for their privacy, but perhaps they want me to react? Perhaps that’s why people have stopped talking to me; I’ve forgotten how to respond with reaction. It probably causes one to think they are boring or uninteresting. If this person was a real piece of work he’d probably just think you weren’t attached to this world like a normal person should be. Unsurprisingly I haven’t met anyone like me yet, as it’s often hard for anyone to find their perfect doppelganger. I’ve met some who’d gotten close to it. But never exactly there. It’s almost as if I lack something that will glue puzzle pieces, finally remembering to add that love and care into the mixture you see often when associating with whom you might call your new friends. I swear to you, the friends that I have now, it never feels right to have them. It never feels right to feel like I deserve them. There is some astronomical game toying with our lives, and I wait, anticipating…