I live in a city of 24 million people. When I take the metro in the morning, I think about how there are hundreds of people around me, and all of them have a sense of self that has been built up over the years, and all of them have thoughts that might be insane, or inane, or funny if they ever said them out loud, that all of them have opened their mouths to sing or shout or laugh, and all of them have hands that have touched another person.
I think about this and feel alone within the confines of my thoughts and my awareness, and then I think of this and feel like I am a part of something.
Do you? Think about this?
Lately, life has been like a series of crescendos that never lead to a climax. I’m searching for some kind of exhilaration, the kind you have when you’re falling in love, and you would do anything, ANYTHING to make that person happy. That lurching fear-like joy in the gut that comes from standing at the edge of a tall building and looking down. The kind of exhilaration you have when you lift away the curtain of disillusionment or disenchantment you’ve drawn to dull the sharpness and keen beauty of this existence, and see that it’s all still there.
I’m searching for it. But I’m beginning to suspect it doesn’t exist in another person. Or if it does, I don’t have the key to unlocking it. And if I find it, the only one I will be able to share it with, is myself.