I have always wanted to be a part of something. I wanted to be a part of a family, a group of cousins and siblings. I wanted to be a part of a group of friends. I wanted to be a part of a community. I have always wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. By default, I fit into all of these categories and none if I take a deeper glance at the truth.
A sense of loneliness accompanies me everywhere I go. It is a sense that comes to life by not being understood, not just for a while, but for every second you have been alive. It is a heavy thing to carry with you everywhere, this loneliness.
I have tried to empty the bag of thoughts I carry in mind. I have tried to scream the words out and I have tried to pull them out forcefully. But, they, like a faithful lover, do not abandon me. They stand next to me in my deepest moments of despair and they hold my hands just as well at the zenith of my happiness. So, I suppose, I lie when I say I wish to be a part of something bigger than myself. I realize, the loneliness has become bigger than me and I have become a part of it.
There is beauty in this world that is more than what the eyes can perceive. This beauty is as natural as nature, as apparent as instinct, and rare, much like common sense. This beauty is of and beyond this world. To understand it, you have to let go any preconceived notions you have and wipe your memory clean. Forget what you know of beauty, to understand and feel that, which cannot be seen.
I consider myself not to be a materialistic person, odd for someone who places so much value onto material things; onto material things that represent memories. Take this postcard for example, bought of a street vendor lining the ever charming streets of Paris some six years ago. I intended for it to be sent to a dear friend, which you might have guessed from the forewords, never happened.
I found it recently, sitting pretty at bottom of my memory box, collecting dust. Albeit well preserved, a sad little thing if you ask me, holding onto something meant to be someone else’s memory. I never let it have that opportunity. I never let that special someone’s face light up with joy because I was selfish, that too in a way that served me no purpose.
My memories have a home in mind, in my heart, far more precious than a piece of cardboard with no address label or message of affection. All these years later, I wonder why I held on? I wonder why am I still holding on? Was I simply being selfish or was it because I didn’t want to let go of the dream?
I should have talked to you. Your soft smiles were an indication enough, I should have stopped you, but you were always so immersed in your ways. Shy glances and sweet sighs. So many confessions twirled on your tongue, like sweet hard candy, melting before I could ever hear their crunch. Every once in while you would smile, let the secrets reflect in your eyes. And, I would forget. Forget your pensive stares. To remember what was in front of me. A mirage, that was all you. You and a semblance of me. A shadow that bore our names. Us. Together. In a different lifetime. In an alternate reality. But this, I cannot forget; we are here, in the now, in this place. In this actuality, you don’t talk and I don’t hear. We don’t speak and you are not near. I live with regret, for the things I didn’t do, the words I didn’t let escape in submission to my fears. Perhaps, it is too late. Time is too far gone to say, I should have stopped you. I should have talked to you.