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I wish I could see myself through the eyes of others. It would save me so much energy, and spare me so much grief. Self-imposed grief because of my demented view of myself. But in the absence of affirmation to the contrary, it’s the only perception I can rely on. And I’m not about to articulate that demented view to anyone, so there’s no chance of that perception being tampered with reality, or optimism for that matter. 

My desperation for a partner, a companion, a cloak for my soul never recedes. I’m distracted from it by whimsical fascinations from time to time, but there’s nothing to distract me from it when I sit alone in a crowded space smiling and interacting with others knowing that there’s no one about to lean over my shoulder to unexpectedly whisper something into my ear…something that only they know will bring a smile to my face, or make my chest constrict with excitement. No one to place an affectionately assuring hand to cup my cheek and chin from behind while sneaking a kiss on my other cheek. No one to look behind my eyes and smile a piercing smile that unsettles me, no matter how many times they smile that smile.

So I remind myself that I need to be more optimistic about life, and in the process I forget that that in itself is already optimism. My expressed need for inclusion is disproportionate to my need for inclusion, and so my independence, my aloofness, my oftentimes smug sense of portrayed confidence will protect my tormenting secrets of loneliness, which is exactly what I want, but not at all what I need. What I need is someone to want to be there doing all those things, not because I asked them, nor because I promised the same in return, but simply because, like me, they have a desire to want to give of themselves without the expectation of reciprocation, but simply to feel the appreciation it deserves. 

It seems I dream more than I do. I hope more than I expect. I die more than I live.