I just sat down with my laptop, hoping to catch a thought before it slips away — but instead, I feel that familiar pull of sadness again. Odd how it always makes me want to talk to you.
You — the void.

I’m not looking for people’s eyes. I’m looking for myself in these words, and hoping I have enough courage to press “Publish.” None of my feelings, thoughts, emotions, or experiences are truly unique, nor are they mine. I’m borrowing them all from life.
Thank you, life, for these beautiful offerings.
And I hope I can express them well enough so that my ripple reaches its destination — wherever that may be.

Recently I was talking to someone I met on one of those dehumanizing apps — a cliché, I know. But being mostly on my own in a fairly “deserted” countryside will push me to great lengths to connect with new experiences sometimes.
Notice I said “on my own,” not “alone.”
I’m never truly alone. I can’t be, as the world would have it.
When I close my eyes and breathe in silence, I feel every connection I’ve ever made — deeply — in my body and soul.
Even you, unknown reader.
I feel you right now.
Thank you for connecting with me. It’s an honor to meet “you.”

As I said, I was talking to this man, who noticed that I have a complicated way of thinking.
I agreed.

We didn’t speak for very long after. He clearly preferred simplicity of mind at this point in his life. But being the “complicated person” I am, it got me thinking — why would he see that as a negative, rather than a gift?

If you can’t tell by now, I take a certain pride in the thoughts I have.
I enjoy the way my brain works.
It twists and turns in ways I sometimes resent but mostly admire.
Often, I think of that quote from an interview with the fabulous singer Cher:

Interviewer: “Thing about yourself you’d change?”
Cher: “My brain.”
Interviewer: “Best feature?”
Cher: “My brain.”
Interviewer: “Worst feature?”
Cher: “My brain.”

Isn’t that the truth?

This marvelous glob of sludge has come so far in evolution that it sometimes turns on itself — eating away at its own edges.
Lord, to carry this much light and shadow — it is a blessing and a curse.
I’ve resented my mind, loved it, feared it, and worshipped it.
Maybe I still do.
Maybe I don’t have to choose.

It took me years of involuntary solitude to reach — and accept — a simple truth: Turns out, I am the one cannibalizing myself.
I love swallowing myself whole from time to time.

Death, war, revenge, cannibalism — they all arise from a deep-seated hunger to balance out life.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not planning to go on a murder spree.
But could I guarantee that without acknowledging the monster inside me?
The possibility — and pleasure — of evil is always there.

I see it in you too, reader.
As long as you have a brain — consciousness, or whatever houses it — there is no escaping this truth. I’m sorry if these words push you away.
Or — maybe I’m not.
Maybe it’s just what I was meant to tell you.

It’s no coincidence that I’ve chosen solitude at this point in life. I’m still learning to embrace the fullness of this truth.
Some days I believe I’m truly good — and life humbles me.
Some days I feel like the beast — yet witness all the joy and goodness I’ve created.

Yet I am neither.

I am human.

And for as long as we’ve existed, we’ve seen angels and devils on our shoulders.
But there is a third presence too.

And that is you, dear reader.
Or God — whatever you prefer to call it.

He saw it all, and it was good.
Perfect, even.

So the choice is ours.
It always has been.

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