When I see myself with my own eyes, I see someone I like. When I see friendly faces around me, I feel well and manage to stay longer, best away from emotional discomfort. When I talk to the who I see myself to be, a part of me responds. But I don’t hear my voice layered again, it’s like that part of me is mute. Why is there no sound in this next door neighboring reality? If I understand the words in this other world front of myself, why do I feel Ike I need sound to hear it, for it to be valid.

Have I ever written a story for myself. I have written as a form of communication. For ideas, meanings, and some reason. Is there a word for puke that doesn’t sound distasteful and instead feels like a beneficial release? I suppose the sound of vomiting doesn’t match with how much of a release it can bring, maybe from an upset stomach. Or maybe it does? Some sounds we make like this, could be argued to be unfiltered. The opposite of aesthetic, which is maybe raw? For me, I have had years of beneficial puking sessions as metaphor for the release I have lived from writing and sharing.

Though, nobody is around to give me ice water afterwards. The stomach acid gutting me and my throat, and I know very little about this form of release being satisfactory. It’s like puking and regretting it. How am I supposed to feel, that though I’ve removed my sickness, that I still need more to soothe my soul. Sometimes I feel needy. And then I see people casually dating, sleeping with others, the flare in life of being on a romance reality TV show, and for many, they have fell in love.

And this is where I force swallow. First of all, I’m not alone. Many people live as single adults for a decade or longer, perhaps the rest is of their life. I’m a decade into being single myself. It gets to a point you no longer believe you’ll find love. People say I’m looking too hard when there’s no dating apps on my phone. I’m not looking. I’ve been force swallowing cold reality to diminish my hope and aching heart. A cold ice bath to remind me, it only hurts when you care. I don’t care to glorify becoming number, it’s not glorious, but I have noticed that it happens with this. I think about myself, my heart begins to ache from being emotionally hopeless, and I tell myself to get over it. I hope I can continue to give empathy to others, how the fuck can I give it to myself. I feel bad for myself, I do. You have to always think about yourself, because when you’re thinking about someone else, you begin to fill with whatever bath of emotions which begin to settle.

People who have famously changed the world without any lived recognition. How did you do it? I am learning you just do it because what else is there to do? Are you the same kind of alone as me? I don’t think I have a bad attitude. I’m just as difficult to find love as it is to find me. I have little confidence that anyone in this world will ever understand me. God put the very few in my life who would. Or, am I being antisocial and cynical? No. I’m actually just realistic. It’s not about there being 8 billion fish in the sea, it’s about where are the right ones?

I want a partner that loves the way I think, the honor I give to others, that they have more love for me than I could give them. I keep my heart full of love, but what if my heart is smaller than yours? I’m full, but I have less of a capacity. Am I just more conservative? No. I think I’m just more fragile. I have recently pondered, that I think I am becoming more sensitive than I have ever been in my life. That scares me a lot. Haven’t I already mentioned that emotional pain is a no-no? Why does emotional pain hurt more over time for me. And I realize I am becoming even more sensitive. What a worse time to be more sensitive. The world of today is wicked, cold, and poisoned. Maybe a part of why I don’t want to be so hopeful with love. I am such a believer, and some things I have just become unbelieving. Have to bond with every animal in the pen to have them respectfully contained.

I stare at my eyes in the mirror hoping I can respond. And so I wait, wait, and wait. My stare has a silent hold on me. What do I know, that I do not know?