Already, you know most of what I wish for, what I fear; I'm afraid that I have lost all my secrets, having revealed everything through my words. I have been cut, and pulled back the skin to expose to you all the very wound which bleeds and pains, and you could see all the layers of skin that it had taken to get through to finally draw blood. I have laid out my fears for all to see, perhaps stupidly, for it is possible that someone with ill intentions could play upon them, but it was better than having them haunt me in the dark. I have even shared with you my hopes.
I wonder sometimes, why it is that I take to this writing everyday, when most days I have nothing at all to say. I wonder why I do it, when I fear that I am boring and repetitious, depressing and occasionally uncouth; I have no particular talent with words. And then I wonder why people read. It is one thing for me to write all this, and quite another for someone to read it. I wonder what you think most of the time, whether you think anything at all. Most of all, I wonder why you bother. And then I return to "why do I bother?".
There are no answers to such questions. Some things simply are. But that is the reply of the lazy minded. Of course there are answers. There are always answers, always reasons. Perhaps the closest I have to an answer is this: "We hide because we want to be found, we walk away to see who will follow, we cry to see who will wipe away the tears, and we let our hearts get broken to see who will come and fix them."
It seems that I am waiting. Not for someone to see that something is wrong, because there is nothing wrong, in a sense. But I realise that I have come to depend on the existence of another for happiness and fulfilment, and that is the person I am waiting for. Of course I know that I should be proactive, seeking this person, creating opportunities for myself; living rather than existing. But I keep telling myself, I will when I get out into Life; the problem is, this is Life. And I am simply not living it. It is terrible to think that the only reason for this is because I am waiting.
It's also impossible to think that one person could be the sole keeper of my happiness, apart from myself. With this in mind, it is little wonder that no one has taken up the spot and rid my heart of its vacancy; it is too much pressure to be what someone needs you to be. That is why the very nature of a relationship is compromise; give and take, knowing how much to expect, and knowing when to give even when it is not asked for.
Perhaps I hope that someone somewhere will stumble across what I write here, and yet, still volunteer themselves to be that person, despite everything they have read. Because this is only a notch above my worst and definitely not my best. The real questions now are, how long must I wait? and will I even be fortunate enough to have someone walk up to me and tell me that they want to be the person who makes me happy?
Perhaps. If I am blessed.
The devout and the spiritual will point out that it has not happened because it was not meant to be, that I was not ready for it. The existentialist will say that it is because I was idle. I am caught between the two; in a void between two worlds which collide sporadically and violently. Yet I am myself, nothing more, nothing less, neither this side, nor that. I understand that one day there will be someone, I only cannot help thinking that "one day" is too far away.