Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. No hope, no harm, just another false alarm. ~Morrissey
I have a reoccurring nightmare that I am a lovable being, that someone finds me acceptable no matter the circumstances, that I am chosen until death do part, that I am fully known and still the other smiles in my presence. Why is that a nightmare when it sounds like bliss? Because it sets me up for a glass shattering slam dunk, a spike crashing me into an unforgiving hardwood volleyball court. The fantasy is not my reality.
I exist an outsider, the odd one out desiring both acceptance by the group, even if that is one other person while simultaneously craving solitude, the audience of one, myself, that will never reject the self. So, I dwell in a motte, a singular copse of trees in a vast tract of short grass prairie pondering the essence of solitary existence.
Am I capable of being a love that attracts love? Am I capable of being a friend that attracts friends? Almost six decades of experience tells me I lack the fundamental capabilities to be either a forever friend or a lasting lover. There is a fundamental flaw keeping me isolated, aloof, alone. I lack the ability to ever be comfortable with anyone other than myself over the long term.
I am a motte in the desert. I am not only in the desert, I am the desert. I am, will always be, the outsider. The older I get the more I am comfortable with this destiny written in my stars. One day, I expect to die, completely alone. And that does not scare me…