Despite the fact that there are over eight million people on the island of Manhattan, there are times you still feel shipwrecked and alone. Times even the most resourceful survivor would feel the need to put a message in a bottle, or on an answering machine.
It’s an inexplicable thing, this insistent dull ache that rings, its disruptive noise resonating and echoing uncomfortably.
It swooped in from nowhere and yet it lingers, like filthy smoke.
I was not alone and yet, in essence, I was. I talked, I smiled, I laughed but I felt piteously empty inside. We exchanged words but we were not on the same plane. No, not now.
And then I stopped speaking and locked my voice up. I stopped trying. I went back to the shell of my words, my only salvation, my ability. Escapism may be the word for it but I deal just fine, thank you very much.
Comfort is good, isn’t it? Excitement, recklessness, surprises….these are desires that draw you from the right and good path, these are not what nourishes your soul. Or are they? Why does my hand reach for them sneakily and shamefully, for fear of punishment and repercussion?
I’m only 26.
I have a right to want to feel alive and fearless.