Who I am is not who I want to be. Who I want to be is not what I wish I wanted to be.
If I know exactly what is wrong with me, is that still wrong with me? Why is awareness of the problem not an automatic solution?
I want to want something else.
I want to care more, or less, or differently.
I want to be braver, and more naive. Or lesser, I am not sure.
I wish I was a boy, or a girl. Or a different girl. Or a boy.
It’s not so much to do with who I am. But, who I wish I wanted to be. I wish I wanted to be nobody. I wish I didn’t care. I wish I cared about other things, other people. I don’t mind me. There is so much more though. So much more to see, hear and feel. Touch. Know.
I wish I was a million people. A million different people. All those ideas. All those thoughts.
I wish I was continually tapped into the larger conciousness of the world.
But I also wish I was one solid person, instead of fragments of a million people. If I could be one thing, without internal contradictions, which sounds boring to hear, yes, but also maybe comforting, in some way. Or not.
When you see both sides of everything, it’s not a happy feeling. For a while, yes. But then you wish you didn’t. Because it makes choices so hard, so breaking.
Sometimes, I wish I was naive, and little. Bumbling through life, on a whim. Unfettered by the responsibility of responsible sane behaviour. That would have been brilliant. But, it isn’t, is it?
I wish I could just go, into the wild. Quite contrary, indeed.
