Written By G. L.
I was always late. Late to come out of my mother’s womb, late to teethe and utter sounds. Late to say words and from phrases; later still to speak in sentences. Late to stand on my feet and walk. Late to run, late to get to school and dates, late to realize what this so-called “life” thing is. Late to manifest I never liked it. Late to start living it, to see if I actually liked it.
Late to write this. Probably too late. As late as you remember you had a comb in your drawer when you no longer have hair to comb.
The biggest truth of all these delays is that I never regretted not having lived. I was either too scared or too comfortable to change my current status.
Therefore it changed me. Since then I’m always scared. Scared that it is too late to deviate from my fate’s route. A fate which has become my most successful excuse for remembering, too late, that I had something better to do with myself a long time ago. Ridiculous clichés about how you can always change and never give up get me out of bed in the morning. I end up falling asleep laughing at myself for the “always” and “never” notions that do not exist certainly.
I won’t dare say that time is against me — because I was actually against it. Against it, by wasting its great amounts bestowed upon me in the mimicry of my true self and potential. There is no sadder thing than knowing you won’t be able to reach the life you deserve.
That’s even sadder. What do you think you deserve, as a matter of fact? Life is what happens when we worry about what might happen. Eventually everything falls into place. Or not. Or some things simply do not happen at all. Always carrying an umbrella in your bag doesn’t mean it’s actually ever going to rain. Nor does standing under a roof to be protected from rain mean you will never get wet.
Sometimes plans, schemes, hopes, fears, even dreams, seem silly in front of my surrounding reality. That is when my pessimistic nature turns the other cheek to the harsh statement: Forget it; it won’t happen. Other times I tend to persuade myself that what I see of other people’s success are exactly as is seems — like it happened naturally and they are perpetually prosperous, in contrast to persistent failure.
Lately I started doubting my ability to fit with other people; or even just with my one and only. Doubting this, I also doubted the very core and existence of true love. Of all things, that hurt me the most. However, I can’t seem to find where my fault is, can’t seem to find a light, even the dimmest one, to follow to find the meaning. I can’t seem to see even the tiniest place in this world for me. But this is not a latent story about a failure, or a life not lived, yet already credited to person.
This is what happens when knowledge becomes a lethal weapon.
Lethal because the more you know yourself, your bullshit, and what you want, regardless of eventually reaching it or not, the more things you have to kill around you. In time they will be replaced by the necessary ones. The ones I truly need; or not. Or I will just have a vast space to gaze into. It’s endless, I know, but not limitless. It narrows down every time.
Speaking of which… What time is it?
I’m still here, still breathing, still writing, still sitting, still seeing, still being… still late.