I’ve mistaken my details for my identity.
My story.
My wounds.
My circumstances.
They feel singular.
They feel special.
They make me feel special.
Special doesn’t always feel good.
Special always feels something.
No one has lived this exact combination.
That’s why I feel special.
That part is true.
The structure underneath it isn’t special.
Or rare.
What’s underneath it is beyond ordinary.
It’s commonplace.
Every day, everywhere, everyone is experiencing.
Grief or desire, or
grief and desire.
Fear or ambition, or
fear and ambition.
Shame or love, or
shame and love.
Billions before me.
Billions after.
The feelings are not unique.
My feelings tell me they are.
Survival thinking insists
no one understands.
No one has felt this like I have.
It keeps me special, isolated, unique.
My heartbreak is heartbreak.
My fear is fear.
My longing is longing.
What they are,
are details.
Ancient.
Common.
Shared.
Details.
The paradox of details is that they are both the essence of
my uniqueness and my sameness.
That’s why I get stuck in the details.