The darkness, once a familiar companion, now feels distant and elusive. I question whether those moments in the past were real or mere figments of my imagination. Doubt creeps in, and I begin to question my own existence. Like a Pinocchio toy, I despise the fact that my nose grows longer with each perceived failure. Have I ever truly been a real boy? This coarse hair, these spindly legs, and the painted lines that form my mouth—it’s as if you see me as nothing more than a discarded toy. All I ask is for some solitude, to be left alone with my thoughts. The trappings of fame, the incessant scrutiny, and the burden of having to say what others want to hear—what does it all mean? If you take away those things, what am I left with?
And then there are those who stand in line, eagerly waiting to shake my hand. For what purpose; who am I to you?
Your money? Please, take it. Your awe and adoration? I find myself loathing it. Is it already 5:00? I swear I heard the whistle blow, signaling the end of this torment. Oh, this nightmare that permeates my very existence. I feel as though I am nothing. Can’t you see?
Love, Jaclynn
(Please note: I am fine. Writing is a safe, cathartic, and gentle space where I release and make sense of my own and others’ experiences. And sometimes it’s not always pretty. And that’s ok. Take care.)
Going On 40 