The Lonely Road

I am tired.  I want to give up.

I feel worn, played out.

The kind of life I wish I could have, well, it’s not impossible I suppose, but it’s highly unlikely.

I’m not old, not really, but I feel like I’m too old to hope for what I wish could be.

Old, worn, played out.

Dull.

All too easily passed over for someone brighter, sexier, prettier, more...more.

I’ve never been, will likely never be, the woman that haunts anyone’s dreams.  I am too aware of what I’m not, too aware of what I am, to believe in a happy-ever-after.  Content is ambitious, but I can imagine that more easily.  I can be alone and content most of the time.

Nights are hardest.  No distractions.  Nothing but me and my thoughts.  My lonely, painful, unhappy thoughts.

I can’t pretend, at night, that the emptiness doesn’t matter, that I don’t want, need, wish for someone to offer me comfort, a gentle touch, kind, loving words.

But during the day, I can pretend.  It’s not so damnably obvious that the kind of loving partnership that I know exists for others, isn’t there for me.  That’s not self-pity.  It’s just...what’s true.  Experience.  I have tried to make it happen, but I make poor choices.  Desperate choices.  Blind choices.

Never shop hungry.

If I could excise the hope, the dreams...or at least if I could just stop feeling so worthless, so much a burden, so unworthy, if I could keep the deadness contained and never let on...

I don’t know what.

I hate knowing that I never will know what a K and A kind of love, a D and B kind of love, is like.

It’s too late, my head tells me, and nothing in the world gives it the lie.