It turns out I have been feeling this “loneliness” for far longer than I thought I did. I found some writings from a few years back, I don’t even remember writing them or the occasion, and I cringe a bit at the amount of melodrama seeping from every word. Here’s an abstract:
“Perception is a curse. Seeing through, having a breakthrough changed my life, changed me more than I can say. Words fail when I attempt to describe how alone I am, in this wretched world where my enemies are not black anymore, neither are my people all white and good. There are not many people where I am to testify to my loneliness or sing the praises of the no-knowledge land. But believe me –believe the sound of reason etching in my voice, ripping at my heart- it’s a deserted place where I am, where happiness is a thing of the past, and where peace never comes without a price.”
“Home becomes a relative thing, anyway. So perhaps it does not matter. Or does it matter? Because home becomes something abstract, something that could only be attained in struggle. Something that people dream of when they sleep; like freedom, love, right … all those beautiful, beautiful words. I guess I will be a traveler for long; me and them who see.”
I think these words were written in 2006 or 2007. However, I relate to my younger self on the subject of “home” and not finding it. And let this be a short note back to her, to the 25-year-old me: “You won’t find this ‘home’ for a long time, and yes you will be a traveller and you will cross paths with ‘those who see.’ And it’s not always good. But it’s never bad.”
Like Stephen Fry once did, I should do too: write a long letter to my younger self. Perhaps not at 25. But to the one stuck at crossroads at 19, to warn and comfort her.