I Carry On
I look out the window, my forehead leaning against the cold glass, trying to see her. I let out a deep, troubled sigh as I search for her. She’s got to be out there somewhere, but how in the hell am I supposed to find her?
I ponder going out there after her, searching for her, never resting until I find her… but I know that I can not. Four weeks after my surgery, the flesh is most definitely too weak no matter how willing the spirit.
I stare out the window, feeling somewhat trapped at home, feeling impatient, feeling that more of my precious life is slipping through my fingers. I am riddled with angst at being stuck in limbo after already spending the first thirty five and a half years of my life trying to be someone who never really existed.
I miss her so much and it tears me apart that I have no idea if I will ever find her. I see other couples, so happy together – at least ostensibly – and I am painfully reminded of what my heart has cried out for all my life but has always been cruelly denied.
I sometimes wonder if it would behoove me to let go of her entirely – no easy task, considering that blossoming romance seems to be everywhere, rubbing potent salt in the wound of her absence - yet I continue the daily struggle to keep alive my hope of finding her. I know not whether I can emerge from that struggle victorious, but I fear that giving up the struggle can only doom me to a lifetime of loneliness.
With dark uncertainty, deep weariness, and piercing loneliness, I carry on. I can do nothing else.
Author's note: This piece is reflective and introverted. It's kind of an experiment for me. Please let me know what you think.
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