I suppose that most people figure that out by the time they reach junior high school, or at the latest in their early twenties.
I am not “most people.”
Despite my age and the funnel-effect of what life still has time to offer me, I can’t seem to pin it down with enough certainty. The most obvious thing that I am missing is serenity. Self acceptance. I’m afraid that every awkward movement I make trying to find a solid foundation just pushes me farther away from what I am looking for. At this point, I have to say that at 45 years of age, trudging through quick sand up to my dimpled thighs every God-given day is becoming extremely tiring.
At times I think sexual fulfillment could somehow ground me more solidly onto my own plane of existence. Placing “sex,” and “love,” into two different drawers gives me the impression that my field studies will do me no harm, but then again so far I am no more soothed than I was before all of this foolishness started. There have been some orgasmic breakthroughs, some naughty milestones but really nothing that makes me any happier when I open my eyes every morning. Having the possibility to experience this freedom is unexpected and quite surrealist and I am sure that if it hadn’t occurred, my choices would have led me straight to a park bench or a homeless shelter.
I do have a surprisingly strong backbone. Despite appearances, I am not afraid to take drastic measures in order to reach some kind of happy destination. Nothing I have done so far has transported me magically into a state of peace. Not even close. In order to live these new, vaguely terrifying situations, I have to drink even more than before. I get the depressing feeling that I am exchanging my physical health for the far too elusive happiness that I doubt finding more and more each day.
My metaphorically strong backbone is starting the pay the price of years, decades, centuries of smoking and drinking. My bones are probably too brittle now to not be crushed into a fine, painful dust under the energetic thrusting, the unlikely acrobatic fornication that I have been indulging in recently. The dull ache is a constant reminder that I am no longer young. For as long as I can remember I have had the frantic impression of running after a train that is already leaving the station. That I have figured out what I should have been searching for years ago does not help matters now.