I didn't think my life could feel worse, but it does. Last week, I turned 32 and WOW! I got robbed, got screamed at by a restaurant owner, the general disrespect, and today I got my worst performance review. A mentor said, "you complain about things when they could be much worse." What does that even mean?
Why am I living this life? What have I got? More ridicule, more problems, and lost my health. Didn't think it could get this bad. I guess I don't belong in this world anymore.
A perfect rainy day, with the greens glowing under brooding skies. But there is nothing to keep me warm.
I love a rainy, cloudy day. An enormous green couch, a soft, feathery comforter to snuggle under; windowsill flowers coming alive in the mist. I should be at peace. My heart should be full. Then why does an overwhelming, haunting ache capture my being?
I make no claims to understand love—its depths or bounds. Clearly, it is only for the fortunate few. Still, is it too much to ask—for warmth? A shared silence? A momentary intertwining of souls? A heart beating near mine. A breath, deep, felt on my skin. A friend, known and unknown.
Make no mistake: I am equally to blame. Nothing simply aparates out of thin air. My fears—like a cage around the heart—hold me in place. The wounds pulse beneath the surface. A scab forms, then breaks. Nothing ever really heals.
I fall too quickly. I hope too hard. My mind imagines golden futures that will never be. Then I run, as it all falls apart. Too vulnerable for this anymore, I keep the door closed.
And so, the weekend remains incomplete.
The warmth—imagined.
The rain—real.
The ache—unrelenting.
A Pull Within
