Looking for Grip
Alone, sometimes I cry.
I’ve never felt lonely — at least not since my teenage years. Back then I’d lie in bed, in the dark, staring at the ceiling, imagining I had someone to call just to say good morning. I’d tell her I’d dreamed about her, hear a few shy giggles, say “see you later, kiss,” and hang up feeling like the king of my street.
It’s funny how dreams and reality can be complete opposites. At that hour, there probably wasn’t anyone more lame than me within ten kilometers.
But apart from those years, ever since I started to feel like an adult, I’ve never felt lonely. Even though I’m alone many times, that’s a kind of company I’m comfortable with.
But it’s also when I feel most vulnerable. I lower my guard. I let whatever mask I might still be wearing fall away, because the only witness is me.
And there, alone, sometimes I cry — not because I have no one, but because I have someone, and I’m not the person I wish I were for them.
Regret for the bad decisions of the past. Anger at the inaction of the present. Uncertainty about the future.
It feels like a knife is stuck in my chest. The air leaves my lungs and I have to fight to fill them again. I swallow small gulps of air that keep me going, but never seem quite enough.
Helplessness is perhaps my greatest fear — not being able to do what needs to be done.
My most recurring dream is trying to run but not being able to get any grip on the ground. I’m usually running away from someone or something. I have to focus so hard just to get my feet to hold the ground that the whole effort burns itself into my memory.
I wake up not knowing if I’m still dreaming.
I’ve never been caught. But I’ve never managed to escape either.
Maybe that’s why the dream keeps coming back — to finally find out what happens.
Do I escape — or do I get caught?
I think that’s exactly how I feel when I’m awake.
In limbo.
Alone, sometimes I cry. Not because I’m unhappy, but because I still haven’t seen them be happy. And the clock is ticking. I'm afraid it will stop.
I used not to be afraid.
When I was nine years old, in 4th grade, we were talking about professions. I don’t remember what job I chose, but I remember perfectly that someone said police officer. And I remember saying that if I were a police officer and one day faced a dangerous criminal, I wouldn’t think twice about giving my life to make sure he could never hurt anyone again.
And I meant it.
Death never scared me — not until my mid-twenties, when I discovered love. That’s when things started to change.
Years later, when my son was born, I found myself crying just thinking about death. The idea of not being here to pass on everything I want to pass on to him, of not seeing him become the man I know he will become, breaks me.
Love makes us as strong as it makes us fragile.
That’s why I wish I were amortal.
I wish I could live forever — but knowing that forever could end at any moment. With that, I'd watch the world change beyond recognition. See just how broken humanity can be, and whether the sun still shines on the other side of the darkness.
I’d read everything worth reading. I’d live experiences that don’t fit inside a single life.
I’d watch my son become immeasurably better than I am.
And watch his mother smile, smile.
But I live my life the opposite way.
I know I won’t live forever — and yet I behave as if nothing could end at any moment. I keep leaving for tomorrow what would make a difference today. I keep building false justifications that excuse me in front of others, but throw the truth back in my face whenever I look at myself in the mirror.
Time passes, and life passes with it.
Alone, sometimes I cry.
Not because I’m afraid of death, but because I’m afraid of not living.