I think I could sit here, staring into the distance forever. So many lives, so many times. I wonder how many people have lain here, on this cold stone floor, in the middle of the night, with that single lamp illuminating their surroundings. I wonder how many people have lain here and had thoughts similar to mine. Those of feeling out of place. Those of feeling so very small. Those of feeling so very alone.
I breathe in the cold air of this witching hour and feel an emptiness filling me. Remarkable isn’t it, how emptiness has the power to consume a person? It is timeless, fathomless in its essence. Has no form no shape. And yet, it is so very tangible. It is at these times, when I realize how truly small I am. How insignificant. And yet, this is what makes me feel startlingly significant. Like in the map of this world I mark a spot. A tiny insignificant one, yet a spot. A spot that completes this patchwork of eyes, of souls of thoughts, of emotions. I exist. And yet, I don’t. Not really. In a world so huge, with this emptiness consuming me, do I really exist? Do I really matter? Am I any more than a fragment? Perhaps the fragment that is forgotten. A tiny bump in the vase, that is missing one piece, and yet no one really notices its absence. The bump that fingers simply never feel. So miniscule, that the piece that fits in there is kicked under the couch, forgotten. Yes it completes the vase, but no one really notices this tiny flaw. The eyes never stop roving, never notice the absence.
There is a time and place for words I am told. A time and place for emotions. A time and place for truths and lies. A time and place for being myself.
And yet, despite how many times I have been admonished, despite everything I have been taught, I find myself unable to conform fully to these rules of living. Fully, I say because my rebellions must be few and far, and mostly secret. Living, I say because they are not the rules for life, just rules to live it.
I find myself wondering how I look, while crying. I find myself wondering what I would eat the next hour, while visiting someone at the hospital. I find myself wondering whether that woman ever realized pink did not suit her, while giving a test. I find myself wondering whether I could go check on my hair, while in the middle of a passionate rant.
My thoughts are inappropriate. Ill-timed. Sometimes I think about boys and risque novels while lying in bed stroking my mother’s hair, and I would wonder whether my thoughts are obvious to her because of that point of contact.
None of these thoughts are particularly original I imagine. But then again, maybe the fact that they stand out in my thoughts makes them original?
I like thinking in a convoluted manner. I like stretching things out and going round and round in circles. It fascinates me. And even more, I like it when people go round those circles with me.
I like making up sentences that only barely, disjointedly, make sense to me, and are probably a mess of tangles to anyone else.
And more than anything else, I like talking to myself. I like arguing endlessly with myself, because really, who better to argue with after all?
I wonder then, whether all this makes me a little insane. And if, there is a time and place for me.