I read once, that everyone wants to think that their love/ grief/ loss, is unlike any that has been before.
That they are the first to think their thoughts, to walk the exact route across this planet.
That they are new, raw, unmatched.
That if only others could see inside their heads, they would be astounded and overcome.
And before all of this, I thought that it might be true.
It seemed likely enough. Forgivable.
And so, I was ready to experience an ugly, selfish kind of pain. To pull within myself and peer out at the world scornfully.
To watch others, and think that they were only happy because they were somehow, emotionally..less. Not so finely wired.
Instead I find myself wanting to know that whatever it is that I'm feeling is unimportant. I want to know that the middle aged woman next door, despite her dull exterior, has experienced far more, has felt in ways that I'm not ready for.
That the man walking down the street, tobacco stained hands carrying flowers, is bringing them home to his companion of many happy, and some hard, years.
I want to know that if others could hear my thoughts they'd laugh, in that way that adults have, behind their hands.
I want to be patted on the head, called "child", reassured that the best, and the worst is yet to come.