Alone In This Body

It’s becoming so clear now. It’s not about the universe not giving a shit, it’s about being alone in this body, alone in this mind. The disconnect is not just a feeling, it is reality. My reality. The feeble intermezzos of closeness are illusions, delusions even. The effects of oxytocin on my gullible receptors and neurologically relevant pathways, and my stubborn consciousness that frames everything as something rather than disregarding it as a rush of nothingness.

I have tried everything: I have learned to speak their language, interpreting their facial tides and even the slightest shifts in posture. Nothing in return. No, even worse: disappointment after disappointment. Perhaps it’s all just unmet expectations. However. I don’t even know why I care.

Sometimes I get the impression that they all keep me in suspense just to feed on my openness and availability. They use me as a whiteboard for their scribbles and crooked lines. Good for projections, interrupted by my naïve questions that make them think – think outside their little boxes of anxieties and subfebrile self-extortion.

I don’t pity myself, honestly, I don’t. It’s just so damn sobering to recognise my own stupidity in this very spotlight. Always seeing what I wanted to see in them. Meh. Alone in this body, alone in this mind. At least it should be quiet then.