Return to myself

"What am I?" I wonder. I wonder if I am even a man. I do not know. I only know that I feel defeated— to the marrow of my bones, to the depth of my soul, to the furthest corners of my heart and mind, as though a piece of me has quietly died. I remember writing once: "I must learn not to want what blooms without me." Yet the ache remains, rooted deeper than reason. And now I am left with unanswered questions, unaddressed letters, unfulfilled desires, unrequited love, and unexplored potential. Still, I want heaven for you. I want your days to be gentle and your nights free of sorrow. Perhaps this is only another reminder that I was never the best thing life could have given you. But I will remember you— as a memory that shaped me, as an absence that taught me how to love, as the name I gave to all my exceptions. Sometimes I think I should have given that beggar a few coins on the train that morning, let him keep blessing a future neither of us would ever see. I know it is foolish. Yet grief has its own logic, and pain invents superstitions when it can find no answers. Because I do not know how to carry this unbearable weight, this ocean within me that cannot find a passage through the ridges of my eyes. And if it ever does, I do not know whether I will bleed tears or weep blood. Do not worry. You will not be burdened by any of this. Your story has already moved on to places where I do not belong. But somehow, through all that was lost, all that never was, and all that will never be, I hope I find my way back. I hope I return to me.