We try

We try, don’t we? We come to this point, each of us in turn. We come and we try. We don’t know what we are or who we want or who wants us. We don’t know how we got here or how to get away. Honestly, we don’t even know where ‘here’ is. But we try. We try to get them to understand. We try to understand what they want. We try to understand who they think we are. What we should have done. Who we should have been.

And failing those… we try to run away.

But we don’t want to. And we aren’t sure. We scream at ourselves that the best course is to leave, to escape the pain, that we shouldn’t be here, can’t make this better, that we aren’t needed here… aren’t wanted here.

We just want to know. We want to feel alive. Want to feel wanted. Sometimes we think we are. We think we understand. Perhaps they understand. We try so hard, and yet… and yet here we are. Wanting to run away.

We get blind-sided one day. It could be nothing. It is probably nothing. We try so hard. We want things to be better. But then we don’t know. Maybe this is better? Or are we fooling ourselves? Is it just the same unimportant mess as it always has been? No.. it has never been unimportant. Everything we are is right there. Every part of us is right there. Right out in the open. Not for everyone. Not for anyone. But for them, it is right there.

But we fear. When there is nothing, we fear we screwed up. When there is something, we fear that we aren’t quite correct. But mostly, we fear when we don’t know. When there is nothing. We are blind-sided by the nothing.

So we try. We try as we have tried. We have left ourselves open. And once we don’t know what to do, when we don’t know what is. It is then that we try to run.

We don’t want to run… but we just might.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
          My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
          When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh I would resign
          This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
          Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men--
          I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
          Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
          Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
          To flee away and be at rest.
- Lord Byron