Runaway thoughts.

I never quite understood why I never wanted to stay. Maybe it was something about the excitement of a new journey or the concept of change, or maybe it was just because I liked all my things in one place: with me. I am never content. I constantly feel like I’m failing at being a person, failing at living. I wish for all these different things, but the truth is, I don’t think it would matter, I don’t think I’d ever be happy.

I spend my days watching the world. I watch the scenes, people’s misery and happiness all wrapped together like a parcel just waiting to be torn apart. All of it passes me by and somehow I lose a part of myself with it. I’m not saying I’m a recluse. I live my life. I smile at strangers, I make small talk with old people and I pretend that ugly kids are cute, just like any other person. I don’t enjoy it. I really never thought about it so deep before, but now I know I don’t. I’m constantly wishing away my days to the next time I know I will feel happy and regret it in the morning. Maybe we all live the same way?

I think I see more than I care to think about. I look beyond the surface. I look for the tell tale signs of familiarity and comfort just to be sure I’m here and secure and okay. I see the people pass and carry on with their own private adventures. We smile and pass a polite gesture. We go home to our places and smile some more and tell the others that we liked the weather and loved their cooking. I guess we’re all the same. We get up to come home to the same. We’re constantly turning the pages but never any closer to the next chapter. When will it come? Who knows?

I have never seen deep into anybodies soul. Sometimes I think I don’t even see deeply into my own. I’ve come too far to let it down now. I’ve let the years pass me by and I’ve never come any closer to being truly close to anyone like we’re meant to. It’s not that I don’t want to find someone to entwine my thoughts and fears into; I just don’t trust myself enough to make them happy. I think I’m scared to love. I love the people around me but I mean the real love we see in old age pensioners still holding onto their hero. Perhaps it’s never really as it seems. Maybe it’s all about familiarity and routine. Maybe it’s not love after all; just something we become so used to that a part of us leaves when they do. Not the part everyone accepts, just the part that we lose on a daily basis. How many times have you ended a day with a feeling of loss or regret? I missed it again.

I can’t help but get the feeling, I’m not alone in this, yet, every time I turn to say goodbye I really mean it. I can’t seem to let go of the things I find consoling. I let them go once or twice, maybe even three times only to want them back some more. I feel every bone in my body screaming out, yearning to be different and all I can think about is the dream. Where did it all go wrong? Where did it all go so incredibly wrong? I look at pictures of the child and see hope and achievement and strength in the eyes, now all that’s left is destructive veins and lonely beats. I will find it one day. On top of the highest mountain, or the below the lowest point, it will find me and I’ll know there and then everything before this point is exactly how it was meant to be.