I’ve always been on the outside, looking in.
As a child I had the mind of an adult, the austerity of a seasoned seaman. I’d ask why I was here, who I was, where does the sun disappear to when we sleep? You’re too young to understand, I’d be told. How could I be too young to understand the answer to a question I conjured on my own?
I’d return to my window seat in life , dejected, losing my gaze to an ever receding horizon, searching for the setting of the sun.
As an adult, I still sit in that window seat, answering my own questions with a childlike enthusiasm. I ask people questions that I know the answers to, not to tell them the answer but to point their gaze towards the horizon, to make them long for the unknown. You ask weird questions, I’m told. Live your life like everyone else and don’t bother yourself with pointless questions that’d get you nowhere. But how could they be pointless when they’ve helped me discover the very purpose of my life? How could they lead nowhere when it’s been the only vehicle that’s taken me everywhere in life?
I listen, understand, and stand with others. And although I cherish my solitude, I wish that for once, there’d be someone to sit beside me at that window seat, to watch the sun setting in the horizon so that I can know that my life has not been a mere dream.