I will forever experience this dissatisfaction, which only furthers my drive to accomplish the impossible. I seek to create something, anything at all, that is universally perceived as flawlessly beautiful. But my ladder can only reach the second floor. Not the sun. Not Mount Olympus. My tree produces apples, but they are not golden.
I could never accurately describe what it means to have been born rigid, when the world demands flexibility. I think in pairs, ready to call out for an ambulance when things get messy. If I cannot understand something, then I am fixed on destroying all traces of it. All of the large women, all the small women, will exist in a way I cannot. They are real, while I am only what people have projected. Because I am so private. Because I am so detached. Because I am the cold of an Alaskan winter.
Every person in love wants nothing more than to know they have become a treasured thought. I have long-forgotten what it feels like to yearn for companionship. I become part of a pair only to waste time, or to learn about myself, or to examine intriguing aspects of another up-close. Nothing is less inspiring than the lack of care I give to being picked. Choose me, or do not. Love me, or ignore me. And will I choke on my own tears some day, as I realize that I never shared myself with much of anyone?