I think I've always been alone . . .
At least, as long as I can remember.
But there's a part of me,
that still feels so connected --
To something near the source,
At the core of somewhere true.
Where we exist without our existence's limitations.
Where duality begins to mean overlap,
And both fiction and fact,
One and yet another,
Things like "this" and "that"
Are the same, still . . .
Innocently unseparated, in this place near to creation.
Maybe it's just my brain . . .
I do have a habit of creating dualities.
"Together, or apart? No," I think.
More like doubting infallibility.
So when I say I've always been alone,
I have to ask myself:
"Have you really?"
"Of course you haven't been.
But who you are right now,
is no longer that you . . .
At least . . . not fully."
"So, if I was alone then,
Does that mean that I
might not be any longer?"
I explained back to myself,
"I think you misunderstood me."
"It's just . . .
You'll never truly know,
Until there's nothing and nobody."
That's a haunting truth to tell yourself,
When you're off in your own head.
At least I won't be alone in my regret,
When I'm among the dead.
I'll find community in that.
Surely, that's the place to which I feel so connected!
The place where maybe two of myself is enough
to make just one of me feel,
Like I'm worth something more, than more or less,
In a place that's neither there, nor here . . .
At least, there, if I don't feel connected,
To myself, I may feel near.