Nothing to Say

For the first time in a long while, I am alone.

Alone in a deep well of what feels like nothingness, but I know there’s more to it because when other people surrounded me, there were things here. I know there are things here now—they couldn’t have just disappeared with those people who I let leave. Some who I wanted to go; others, very few, who I didn’t. The lights are only off, and I know that all I have to do to obtain an object of desire is reach out and grab it. But the object is not the same; there is no light to shine on its beauty. I do not know what it looks like in detail anymore; I only know that it exists. That it had existed before in my life and that it must be there now, but there is no light.

I used to know people, people who said that I made them happy. And I would wonder to myself incredulously, thinking how it was possible that I could do that—me with my small ideas, my small voice, my small everything. Yet, they kept saying the words like I’d saved them from something horrible. I was happy for them; happy to help them; happy that I, as one little girl, could be something. I was happy because they made me that way. But I’ve realized something; you can’t let your happiness be based off another person, because at one point or another, that person always leaves you. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes on accident; it happens, and your heart breaks. Over and over it does, leaving a wound that no one can fix but you, and even then it can never be completely healed. A scar stands there on your once thriving, living heart. It’s now lost a little color, grown slightly colder. If you’re not careful, you can wake up one morning and find that it’s completely black, or someone else will point it out to you. But what is there to be done? Your soul has been broken by many; many who may not even realize how much you’ve been through yet break you anyway simply because they can.

I catch myself wondering why the world is so cruel. Why—in times of so much peril and distress—that people can only seem to find fault with one another. Until I realize that I’m one of them. It disgusts me; I disgust me. I probably disgust them, too. It’s probably the reason why they’ve left. Why they’ve left to be with others better than me…

I hold only myself accountable for the loss. But I’m not sure that I can say that I’m happy. I don’t know what I am anymore—lost in a state of insensibility? Maybe I can’t say because I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve lost my identity, in a sense—lost who I am and was. Maybe that’s a good thing—I’m stronger now. I can stick up for myself a little more than I could when I could feel.

I want to feel again—be the passionate creature I used to be. Laugh at anything I thought remotely funny, even though no one else believed it to be that way. Cry with those who were struggling, even if I had only just met them. Love all those I held close to my heart without regret. Smile to myself at the memories of simpler days.

I want to be the person who didn’t regret feeling with all her heart.

For the first time in a very, long while…I am alone.

Very alone.