I walk down the street and go unnoticed. Does anyone see me? Is anyone interested in really knowing me? Do they even care about my story?
We all have a story, or rather a collection of stories that compose the symphony that is our life. Is anyone interested in hearing mine? There are millions of people that walk this planet every single day asking this same question. But I don't care about millions of stories. I care about two: mine, and the one that when combined with mine creates a harmony that would make Mozart cry from its sheer brilliance and beauty.
But right now my symphony creates an image of doom and chaos. Right now it sounds violent as my frustration with my current situation is dangerously close to boiling over.
I cannot sleep. I cannot put on a dress shirt without assistance. I cannot find refuge in the creativity I find when I am in the kitchen. I cannot blow off steam by putting on my running shoes or lifting weights until I feel that sweet pain of physical exhaustion.
My summer mission to lose at least twenty-five pounds is back to zero. There is nothing I can do about that unless I just starve myself for the next month, literally. This has had an extremely negative affect on my mood and my level of comfort in my own skin.
I cannot smile. When I walk down the street and pass someone I cannot smile. I try, but a shy grin is all I am able to muster.
I live in an area consumed with and driven by power, status, money, networking, and beauty. These are not things I possess. I am not rich and powerful and I do not have an impressive title on my business card.
I find myself professionally trapped in a situation where I am isolated to the extent I cannot meet my full potential and while I may do the difficult work, I do not get any credit and therefor no one knows who I am. I must be the public face in a certain area of my profession, and yet when I sit in meetings I am passed over and others are recognized who are not even there. It is beyond embarrassing.
I am not a GQ model, nor will I ever have the sleek and toned muscular body that women lust after. I listen to stories of women, women who live near me, filled with desire, lust, intensity, and a burning passion that emanates a level confidence and intimacy that dreams are made of, wishing, dreaming, hoping one day I will be able to know what it feels to be desired like that. But somewhere, deep down, I feel it will never happen.
Because I walk down the street and go unnoticed. No one sees me. No one is interested in really knowing me. No one cares about my story.
So I continue to compose the symphony that is my life alone. But what good is it if no one will ever hear it?
(This message has been brought to you by the makers of Vicodin, frustration, and exhaustion)