I miss someone being there.
To hold my hand, to walk with me. I miss someone being there for me to talk with. For me to check in on. Someone being there to check in on me. I miss being surrounded by people. Good quality humans. People that I love. I miss the joy that all of these souls would give me. I miss all of the intricacies of the human life and mind coursing through my brain and into my veins until I forgot who I was.
I miss the smell of France.
I miss the temperature of the big white hall of the church.
I miss the times when we resorted to using humans to build ladders, tables, and to spell words.
I miss everyone’s voice. The different underlying textures; the rasps, the sweet high-pitched swallowing sound of the vocal chords. I miss my little brother and my older brother that I didn’t know I had until a month ago. I miss both of them. I miss the day when I discovered that I possessed more freedom than I thought I did. That day when I figured I could be myself; be my own person and no one could stop me. No one would know the difference.
Everything was new and felt like an excuse to feel the wind in my hair and the breath in my lungs.
I felt like I could paint my portrait anyway I wanted to.
I took care to apply all of the right colors in broad brushstrokes until my masterpiece was complete.
And then realizing that the hand holding the paintbrush wasn’t my own.
I miss someone being there and painting along with me.