on what if’s

What if? This has proven to be the most tormenting question in my life. I think I finally understand what Sheldon Cooper means when he says that unresolved situations are so uncomfortable for him; that they are like an itch in his brain he can’t scratch. I do not think there is anything worse than spending your days wondering how different things would have turned out if some things had happened or not, how happier you would have been. I do not know if this is what they called regret. I try to pretend it isn’t.  You see, I like to think that regret is feeling sorry about the things you did.  And if that is the case, which it isn’t, then I do not have many of those. Have I lived well, probably not? So maybe I’ll call it a special kind of regret. More of a longing for opportunities that you didn’t even know you had, let alone wasted. It is like wanting to take a glimpse of the life you feel you was taken away from you even before you lived it. Wanting just a few minutes, to live, or at least watch how that would have been, how it would have felt like.  Does that even make sense? Does anyone else ever feel that way?

For me, it’s a constant craving. I feel like I am homesick for a place I am not even sure exists. A place where my heart is full, my body is loved and my soul is understood. It is thought sitting at the back of my mind, never letting me forget that I do not really fit in.; that I never really have. It is this constant feeling that I would fit in better somewhere else, that I belong somewhere else. I do not think I would.  I just like the illusion, and the consolation it brings with it. You see, I like to think of myself as an old soul trapped in my young skin. And so most of my days are just a constant clash, trying to find a balance between who I think I am, and who I should be, who I am expected to be. Would I be happier, would I be more successful, would I love my life more? Would I be myself? Would I fit in my skin better? Would I love the skin I am in? ‘

Do I love the skin I am in? I think I do. Do I really love the skin I am in? Do I? I don’t know. I probably do. But it is one of those questions I do not like answering. So I just push it to the back of mind and stare into the mirror until I find something worth loving. On most days, it is fairly simple. On other days, it isn’t. Is that something I should think about? What for? And even I was to, I already know how that would go. And it all boils down to wanting more than I have, more than I feel like I was ever meant to have. Meant to have? That sounds a lot like fate. Do I believe in fate, destiny? I don’t. I do not want to. I do not want to accept that this is all my life is about. That this numbing feeling of emptiness and dissatisfaction is all I have to show for this agony I call my life. That maybe this is as good as my life gets. Is it? I sure do hope to God it isn’t. Hope to God? Do I really? See, I should think about that too, but then again I know how that will end. I probably do not. Only there are days, I desperately want to believe that he is the only one who could save me. But can he really? Or better yet, will he? Am I that significant?

Speaking of significance, what is the measure of significance? Is it by how many heads you turn when you walk into a room? Or by how much money you have? Is it by how many people love you? How many hearts you’ve broken? How many people shudder in fear at the sound of your name? How many hearts forget to breathe in your presence? How many souls you keep awake at night? How many souls have kept me awake at night? Let’s see, that would my soul. And my head, and my tears, and my lungs that tightened from all that crying and my throat that closed up, perhaps attempting to lock out the pain, save me from my thoughts. I do not know. All I know is I couldn’t breathe, and for a while, I was convinced I wouldn’t see the morning.  But morning still came. And I woke up still wondering. What if I let him call me? What if I wasn’t an introvert? What if?


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