Sometimes, in the quiet moments of the night, I find myself listening to the echo of my own thoughts. In those silent hours, the world sleeps but I am vividly awake, grappling with the tapestry of my own mind. It’s there, in the solitude, where I meet myself - the real me, not the one masked in daylight’s pretense.
It’s strange how the darkness listens better than any living soul I’ve known. It does not judge; it simply exists around me, absorbing my words without a whisper. I talk about the days when I smiled just to stop the questions, and the nights when my laughter was as hollow as the wind through a deserted alley. The darkness just listens.
In the battle between freedom and loneliness, I've danced on the edges of both. I once thought being unbound by relationships, expectations, or norms would feel like freedom. But the absence of chains sometimes felt like floating in an endless void, where my echoes were the only sound.
In my solitude, I’ve sculpted a sanctuary out of my madness. Each unusual thought, each rare perspective, is a brick in the fortress of my mind. I surround myself with things that have soul: books that smell of age, music that echoes past lives, paintings that speak in colors louder than words.
But even sanctuaries have their shadows. The deeper I delve into my own soul, the more I fear what I might find. What if my complexities, my paradoxes, are too much? What if the very essence of me is something that cannot be loved, not even by myself?
Yet, this fear, this incessant doubting is also where I draw my strength. It drives me to seek connections that are genuine, relationships that are not just superficial touches but deep, soulful engagements. I yearn for a person who sees my paradoxes not as contradictions but as a mosaic, beautiful in its complexity.
I’ve come to realize that my biggest fear isn’t about being seen but it’s about being misunderstood. To be seen fully and yet recognized only for the fragments rather than the whole. Maybe there is no ultimate resolution, no final understanding. Perhaps, like everyone else, I am a work in progress, a narrative continuously unfolding.
And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the beauty isn't in the completion, but in the process. In the gradual understanding and accepting of all parts of myself — the deep, the shallow, the sensitive, the cold hearted. As dawn breaks, the shadows in my sanctuary lighten, reminding me that every day is a new chapter, another step in the journey of being and becoming.
I am not like an ordinary world, and perhaps, I never need to be.