Is it impossible for me to be satisfied?

Out of many errant thoughts before sleep,

Only a few rise to the top and cause me to move restlessly, not content in my self sufficiency.

What do I hide from myself, that I wouldn't give you if you asked?

What happened to me, that I strain to recall notes of feeling and sensation that have long slept undisturbed? I thought you were beautiful, once.

I almost don't want to know any more. If this book closed tomorrow, I wouldn't regret having felt, having my thoughts turn to the strangeness and wonderment of our shared longing, and this feeling would remain young, tender, evergreen.

Life is messy. Feelings of attachment, real, true, enduring, lasting, make my stomach drop and my breath catch because this wretched thing called self craves security and a safe haven like water and air. But what little can I give in exchange?

When every action is a transaction, need becomes a luxury I can't afford. I won't ever ask, because I deny myself the thought of sharing my lived experiences and the pleasure of company. I am a deeply lonely person with odd moments of joy, but intolerable sadness. I feel pleasure, I can see connection and joy but I can't touch it. The light of sustained companionship eludes and torments, its absence an abyss.

Yet the opposite, the unknown, knowing another as I know myself and being known in turn, is such a great yearning that even as I hold these thoughts in my mind my mouth turns to ash and a gaping hole in my center yaws, and will I ever find relief from this thing as familiar to me as my name?

When I look in the mirror, what do I see? I see assembled shapes, I see colors, and curves. I see regret and hopelessness and resignation. But there is a glimmer of truth in my eyes, an air of wistful humor in the corners of my lips, sparks of lightning and the shimmer of heat in my gaze. I know I will be all right.