Lately I have been finding myself feeling especially empty whenever my gaze meets that of a young child. For instance, as I people-watched in my local Starbucks a few weeks ago, I noticed the elation and animation radiating from an eight-year-old who was about to indulge in his sugary-pink concoction.
This sight practically shriveled my insides; I felt a certain sadness — emptiness, even — deep within me. Perhaps it is because I, too, was once an innocent child who did not possess multitudinous fears regarding the future or just my life in general. I was once able to sleep soundly, and my thoughts did not used to eat me alive under my own bedsheets. And I figured: if these feelings were inevitable for me, they would be inevitable for him, too. And that sheer thought saddened me.
As I think back on past experiences, I question my own morality and constantly wonder if I would be making my younger self proud. I feel that I am growing up too quickly. Despite my hatred of high school and longing for independence, I cannot help but believe that this whole “real world” shindig has been thrown at me with extra force and at a speed too fast for me to handle.
All of those times I was one of fifty others in a smoky, crowded basement seeing bands perform, I had this invariable awareness of my own loneliness as if it were clawing at my skin, desperately trying to seep into my veins. Surrounded by all of these lively people who inhaled drugs and gargled on alcoholic beverages, I questioned my existence and allowed the vibrations of the guitar from its amplifier to devour me whole.
All of those times I lay in bed with a potential lover, memorizing each swirl of color in his irises, I was still unfulfilled. I cannot count how many times I have simply tried to become a resident in someone’s heart, to no avail, because he was only interested in sex.
I believe I hand out pieces of my heart too hastily — like a protestor handing out flyers for her cause — and that is scary to many, especially those who only desire me for that one reason. That must illustrate my unluckiness in the realm of men. To all-whom-I-have-let-down-by-not-sleeping-with-you-even-though-I-seemed-interested-the-night-I-met-you, I apologize — but not really.
All of those times I stared at the pitch-black ceiling at two-in-the-morning, wondering where an English degree could possibly take me, I constantly second-guessed my future. After being mocked by my peers for taking “vacation classes” in literature and writing, I feared the legitimacy of my career, my passion. I wondered why I was not blessed with a profound left-brain which would allow me to excel in science and mathematics and provide me with a “real” job.
These internal crises I feel on a daily basis sometimes rip me to shreds, but only if I let them. I have been finding the strength to move along, but I am desperately trying to grip onto my innocence before it completely diminishes before my eyes.
I recently lost touch with a best friend of 15 years. She is now practically engaged to her boyfriend of a few months. She also has a father battling throat cancer. We used to play Polly Pockets together in her basement.
I recently broke up with a boyfriend of almost three years who was able to make another state feel like home to me. I am forced to watch him cheerfully move on from me as he explores the soul of his new girlfriend.
I recently watched a friend check herself into a psychiatric hospital when she almost took her own life out of depression. Her art is the reason why I went into A.C. Moore for the first time in middle school.
But also, I recently discovered that my first cousin gave birth to her second child and is blissfully married to a man whom she loves.
And also, I recently watched a friend give up cigarettes — cold turkey — because he wanted to start giving a shit about his health.
And also, I recently enjoyed a cup of iced coffee from Starbucks, and I witnessed an unsuspecting couple look into each other’s eyes with awe, and I realized — despite the existential crises I tend to like flowers in the garden of my mind, I have both the ability and the prerogative to put an end to these negative feelings and finally be able to look at a smiling child without feeling empty inside.
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The author of this piece wishes to remain anonymous.