Diary Entry, 1997

An account that has inspired much of my writing here on Medium.

One Day

The ocean roars and churns as it meets the shore, filled with turmoil and restlessness. I can relate to the ocean's feelings. I may not have been more loved than any other man, but I have also never been so deeply misunderstood.

You can hear me, see me, even touch me, yet I still feel invisible. It’s as if I might as well be a ghost. I exist, yes, but I carry a man’s flaws, and perhaps a few more. The fabrications I weave are merely tales I tell myself to ease my conscience. Living this way has left me emotionally numb.

At times, I wonder if I am finished, if I have let go of the hope that one day you will step off an Alitalia flight. Instead, I write to a woman who exists somewhere in my imagination; a comforting presence who understands me and longs to love me. Yet, she is just a figment, a dream. Still, I write, filled with hope.

The sea captivates me, both in my life and in my writing. I often use the lighthouse as my symbol, a guiding light that flickers intermittently, signaling my distress.

I have been battling the cold, trudging along the coastline against the salty spray. The sights I have witnessed are beyond my belief.

This evening, I find myself with a glass of red wine, listening to Van Morrison, as tears begin to flow. Writing brings me joy; I yearn to create a perfect world where autumn leaves spiral gracefully to the ground, and the wind dances around my feet.

I can achieve all this on paper, but I recall the saying about dreams: “You can dream, but do not let dreams become your master.”

And therein lies the dilemma.

Is this the reason for my feeling lost? My dreams have led me astray, fracturing my life in the pursuit of an unattainable ideal.

Sometimes, fear grips me, a panic that I may never know love again; that perhaps a critical moment slipped by unnoticed, and we missed our chance. Even now as I write, tears threaten to spill at the mere thought of it.

My life is well past its midpoint. I have gained countless insights except for how to fall in love once more. Today, I spoke with an elderly woman who endured the loss of two sons in the war. She told me with a smile, “I can’t be hurt anymore; I’ve lost everything dear to me, so nothing can wound me now.”

Is this my fate as well?

Please, do not judge me too harshly for saying that it is not.

I am on a journey to find you, to redeem myself, to love you with everything I am and will ever be. So now, as I sit on the harbor wall in Tobermory or sip coffee by the Seine in Paris, my thoughts will linger on—

one day.

• Adrienne Beaumont | Autistic Widower (“AJ”) | Brett Jenae Tomlin | The Sturg | Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles | Trisha Faye | Karen Schwartz | NancyO | Katie Michaelson | Bernie Pullen | Michelle Jimerson Morris | Amy Frances | Julia A. Keirns | Pamela Oglesby | Tina | Pat Romito LaPointe | Ruby Noir | K. Joseph | Brandon Ellrich | Misty Rae | Karen Hoffman | Deb Palmer | Susie Winfield | Vincent Pisano Paari | Marlene Samuels | Ray Day | Randy Pulley | Michael Rhodes | Lu Skerdoo | Pluto Wolnosci | Paula Shablo | Bruce Coulter | Ellen Baker | Kelley Murphy | Leigh-Anne Dennison | Jennifer Marla Pike | Carmen Ballesteros | Marlana, MSW | Patricia Timmermans | Keeley Schroder | Jan Sebastian | James Michael Wilkinson | Whye Waite | John Hansen | Trudy Van Buskirk | Joanie Adams | Jerry Dwyer

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A Trip

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