THE SEARCH

THE SEARCH
I want to know
the things that are truly mine.
Not the things everyone wants.
Not to be understood.
Not to be loved.
Not to be liked.
Everybody wants those things.
I want to know
what is different.
I want to know
the unusual ways I think.
I want to know
what is original about me.
What is rare.
What is unsettling.
What is strange.
I want the truth.
Maybe I do not deserve it.
Maybe nobody deserves
to know themselves completely.
Maybe most people
never take on that privilege.
But I want it.
I have always wanted it.
I am willing to look
where other people will not.
And still,
I cannot find it.
I cannot discover
the thing.
The thing I would love.
The thing I would devote myself to.
The thing that would never bore me.
I get bored of everything.
People.
Shows.
Ideas.
Even myself.
The moment I feel
there is nothing left to uncover,
something inside me
begins to drift away.
Yet that is not completely true.
I love familiar things.
I love my family.
I love my friends.
I love the people I choose.
So why does everything else
lose its color?
Why do I feel
there is always another door
hidden behind the wall?
I keep searching for questions
nobody has ever asked.
Questions so specific
they belong to only one person.
Me.
But every answer I find
feels human.
And I do not want human.
I want the truth.
I have thoughts I hate.
Thoughts that make me feel
like a hypocrite.
I like to think I am kind.
Thoughtful.
Attentive.
Then a thought arrives
that proves I am capable
of being something else.
Something selfish.
Something ugly.
Not monstrous.
Just human.
And somehow
that terrifies me more.
Because what if there is nothing wrong?
What if there is nothing special?
What if the thing I have spent years searching for
does not exist?
Or worse
what if it does?
I spend so much time
trying to discover
what is different about me
that I no longer know
what is true.
I tell myself
I am self-aware.
Then I am overcome
by feelings I cannot name.
Feelings that are not in any dictionary.
Feelings that arrive
without explanation
and leave without one.
I sit with them.
Silent.
Studying them.
Studying myself.
Trying to find the thing.
The hidden room.
The final answer.
The truth.
And every morning
I wake up
to the same realization:
Nobody knows anything.
Not really.
Not me.
Not them.
Not even the people
who insist they do.
And maybe that is the thing
I cannot accept.
That there may never be
a final answer.
Only the search.