This existence is singular. There are things I will never know in this life.

I will never know what it’s like to have a thin body. I will never know that privilege and the prejudice that comes with it. I will never know what it’s like to naturally fit in allotted seats and not spill over and have to squeeze my knees together to not feel like I’m invading everyone’s personal space. I’ll never know what it’s like to be “classically beautiful”, with a button nose and full lips and thick, full, glorious hair. I won’t look like the people on the TV and I won’t be wearing a bikini on a public beach in this lifetime.

I also will never know what it is like to be mistaken for another gender or to be “read” as a gender that I do not identify as. I won’t know the daily struggle and fear, and know the bravery it takes, to walk out of the house in a dress when you were born a man. The courage it takes to have body altering surgery to have your breasts removed because looking at yourself in a mirror feels wrong. 

I won’t know the assumptions that are placed upon someone because of ethnicity. I’ve been followed around a store, but I won’t know what it’s like to have someone assume I am either stupid, or good at math, or lazy because of the color of my skin. I can know people of every color and gender, and states in between, but I will never intimately experience their struggle except for their accounts of it and my own eye witness. 

I haven’t determined why I wake up with the urge to know all existence that I can. I want to live in all the cities. I want to sky dive. I want to see a country where the native language isn’t English. I want to write the great American novel. 

I will never know what it is like to not be a creative, to not have the impulse and ideas. To accept things at their face value. 

I wonder if I’ll ever know what it’s like to be loved. To honestly be just loved for who I am, not what I represent, not what I could be, not for what I am able to give. I wonder if there is a person out there who can be a matched set with me. I fear that in this lifetime, I am a “one woman show”. I woke up feeling empty in my bed, the other day, and I thought about the hard truth that, for most, from the beginning it is essentially a singular existence. You are born alone, into a world where everything is new and learned for the first time by you. A place where you start out not knowing the language or customs. When you fall asleep, even if there is someone next to you, they won’t actually be with you in your dreams. When you open your eyes, you are back to living in your own skin. When the moment comes to shuffle off this mortal coil, you can have grandchildren holding your hand (if you’re lucky), but that moment you close your eyes for the last time, you are truly on your own. 

I have yet to understand the purpose. I want to impart everything I have learned and learned to love onto the Earth in someway. If I write it or paint it, or teach it to a child. But in the meanwhile, I have a lot of lost time to make up for. 


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