What It Is Like To Be Me

If I were to describe my whole being with one word, it would be the eyes. It’s always the eyes that are looking from the inside of my head (that is connected to the spine that is connected to the stomach, and then the legs) into the outside air. It is always the eyes. It’s me.

In the air there are trolleys, activities, people and, since some time ago, also bars with more people and more activities.

I was born on a different planet. I don’t understand. I want to fit in but I don’t want to blend. It’s my little tragedy, so big that my head wants to go back home.

So I am looking at you like a scared animal. I see you, you don’t see me. You notice me when I start blending in, but it’s so horribly painful that I always stop half way, achieving nothing. I crawl back in through the hole in my scull and relive my loneliness.

When I meet people who seem to understand, my arms and my breath warm up instantaneously. For the moment of the discovery, I become the fairy I was born. But they go every time. And when they do, I grow a little bit older.

The happiness I know is more natural than 360 degrees of round-love elevated heaven. I don’t know where it comes from and I don’t know where it goes. But when it’s there, I am complete. It feels like I am back in the womb and worrying has not even been created.

And when it leaves life becomes dry and interesting again. Again, I become the eyes and long for love.