I'm not sure what about it bothers me so much. Every single time I've ever heard people having sex in the next room over, it has clobbered me with a shock wave of depression. It's not the act itself; the closeness; the intimacy that makes me uncomfortable. (In fact, I find that rather intriguing from voyeuristic and curious points of view.) No, it's the inevitable comparison of my own life to theirs that always drags me down. And all I can ever think is, "Why can't that be me?". Every scenario I've yet to experience for myself quickly comes to taunt me. They point and laugh as if to say, "You don't belong here, silly boy. Go back home and play with your toys."
But why can't it be me? I've been the "good person" my whole life. I've played the part of decency and generousness. Of class and honesty. I've been the nice guy. The dependable guy. Responsible guy. The stable one. I've been them all... So I ask you once more, why can't it be me? What did I do wrong? I don't mean to imply that goodwill should automatically result in universal reward, but it would sure be nice on occasion. Is it accurate that no good deed goes unpunished in this world? In my eyes, it seems to be true.
There was a time, not long ago, when my sexual appetite was on the verge of flatlining. You might expect the thoughts of a sixteen year old boy to marinate in sexuality... I wasn't him. Instead, I was the boy who had convinced himself that the world of sex was one he could never visit. It was not for him, and the sooner he accept that the easier it would be for him in the end. Class after class, sitting at my desk letting the waves of musical history wash through me. Just me and my headphones. We've been through a lot together...
After years of depression, heartache and hopelessness, I started to notice a change in myself. I was less worried about what others thought of me. I had shed the weight of emotion and the baggage that generally comes along with it. I had accepted my place in life as the android. The made-up person who no longer had the ability to love, or to hate. To feel joy or sorrow. To care or to matter at all in the bigger scope of things. I just was. That's it. And it made me realize that my own struggle with life should not interfere with the ability of others to enjoy theirs. So why not try to at least help someone else make it through a little easier? I suppose it was this kind of thinking that secured my role as one who feels the responsibilities of his entire world resting on his own two shoulders. Sometimes it's just too heavy.
Still, there are many moments when I am crying on the inside because part of me does want to experience these things. My hunger is much deeper now, and much more primal. But no one ever knows about this because I never let it show on the surface.
I have many hidden layers.