I lost myself.
Isn’t that a weird thing to lose? Yourself? I mean, I am right here. I can see myself when I look in the mirror. It’s me – same eyes, same nose, same scars, same smile. Even my hair is the same. But I am lost. Me – the one who is inside.
It may be the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. Years ago, maybe five years plus, I was different. I was…me. But how was I me, and how did I lose myself? Well, that’s maybe the oddest part of all, and maybe a little hard for me to fathom.
One day – at the end of 2009, I think – I created my Facebook account. I had fun on there; played, made friends. It was probably a really great time for me. But the catch was I had a pen name for my writing. Yet, oddly, the time I wore a mask was when I was able to be me.
I realise that I lost myself the day I released my first book. It wasn’t fiction nor fun, but it was me. The real me. It was about me and my life. Somehow, when I sent myself into the world without my mask, I got lost.
Maybe it is better to write under a pen name. Maybe it is better to hide a little. Isn’t it weird that when we are unknown to the people around us, we are more ourselves than with the people who know us and love us dearly?
I miss my jokes – not that they were funny.
I miss my daily writing – not that it was ever good, but it was fun.
I miss devouring book after book and not coming up to view the world.
I miss laughter…my own.
I miss music and my endless searches for another great band or song.
I miss that writing spark inside – it’s there, I can feel it sometimes, but I fail to ignite it.
I miss drinking beer while sitting on my decking outside.
Mostly, I miss myself.