I’m supposed to feel festive but all there is to think about are the times I can’t remember being loved.
Frankly, I’m sure this is an exaggeration but the child in me can’t remember the time that I was loved for me and not the expectations of who I may become. Dreams, wishes, and fantasies of someone else’s youth embody a childhood I can’t remember living. I feel as though I was an empty shell that had only recently found its true filling.
However, the filling is expired.
How do people begin again? I really can’t remember being loved.
I have pondered the things that are missing in my life and they often lead me to the word “love”. It makes me question how much I’ve given and how much I’ve received. Or… if I am even capable of something that I don’t have any knowledge of.
When I write, I write about fantasies and what I think ‘love’ is and never what it is. But what is it? I am without it.
And maybe that’s why I can’t seem to get past the first few chapters of either Age of Sirene or the sequel to Listening to Georgiana. They require thoughts and knowledge that I just don’t have… or experiences I can’t trust.
Anyway, here’s something where these things are not any of my worries.
This is an endeavor my brother started and I backed up. It doesn’t require much of me right now which I am thankful for because I can barely be present ‘today’. I am but a sliver of what I thought I would be.
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