I wonder if I am just finding myself in the same cycles of life. Each chapter feels new and different – but as the story ramps up, the setting starts to feel too familiar. When repetition faces us, we wish we could identify the underlying theme; our instinct being of course to go straight to the source – the commonality being ourselves. I must be the problem, the reason things go down the same path. The dirt under my feet remains the same – even if the scenery around me changes. Here I am again, lost in my emotions, unsure if I am doing what is truly best for me for the long haul, or just appeasing myself in the right now. Is this what people mean when they tell you ‘live in the moment’? I feel like I am doing it wrong. I feel like I know what I should want but can never quite get my hands on it.
There is this hole inside of me. I think I was born with it. I think it is meant to be there forever. I think it has become a part of me, a recognizable feature, something I would feel empty without.
It keeps me searching, asking questions, my eyes inward rather than focused on the chaos around me that I cannot change.
I used to wonder if other people had holes like mine. My concern used to be with if I was alone in feeling this way. I don’t wonder that anymore. I have grown comfortable with the pieces of me that were never there.
No amount of love or adoration is meant to fill that part of me. That part of me is out of reach — and that’s okay. We should all be so lucky as to have a piece of ourselves no one else can see. That mark that we are born with, that completes us. A fingerprint that tells the story of who we are, among a sea of souls searching for acceptance, and understanding.
Our holes connect us. Our holes make us whole.