I used to find companionship in books. I used to be
transported into new worlds and lived in them while the world around me
crumbled into the meaningless, depressing every day real world. Now, I can
follow the characters, I can read their stories, but I don’t feel the same as I
used to. I have come to realize that I cannot find my way to the fake worlds of
Harry Potter, Katniss Everdeen, Holden Caulfield, Fitzchivalry Farseer. I am
merely a reader, a watcher, seeing people’s lives unfold before me.
The same thing happens in real life. I am merely a pawn in
everyone else’s game. I seem to be a secondary character in everyone else’s
story, including my own. We live in a world where all anyone ever cares about
is getting ahead and showing off, while I sit in the shadows and watch. I see
relationships get made and flourish, while my own love life is a stagnant as a
puddle. There is no motion to how I move, even though there seems to be a
repeating ebb and flow of people, life around me.
Is it too much to ask for if I want the guy on the train to
notice my book and ask if it is good? Is it a real predicament if I want
someone to notice the braid in my hair and how much time it might have taken me
to do it, or notice I have a pink sweater on and maybe it looks good with the
red lipstick?
I know things don’t get handed to you, because “the world is
not a wish-granting factory.” But just once I’d like to have something to say
in a conversation that doesn’t start when someone else is the main speaker and
I’m just the listener.
It seems to be a sore spot with me, this topic of being
alone and wanting to be heard. I might end up talking about this quite a bit, and
I’m sorry in advance.
Well, that’s it for this post. Until next time- I’m Charlotte Carmichael, and thanks for reading.
