Have I ever written about how old I feel? No, that’s not entirely right. I feel worn out. I feel that I’ve been alive for years beyond my actual age because I struggle, on some days at least, to remind myself exactly what my purpose is.
I try to keep my tools sharp. I heat the forge of my personality and make sure than everything from my charisma to my wit is battle ready. I polish my charm and tighten my intellect so that I may use them as I need them. Then, I drop myself in situations where they are handy weapons. Not to endanger or attack, but to entertain and enthrall. But still, through the great days and tormented nights, I cannot find what my reason for being is.
This is a classical crisis. One where the young man feels drained and useless in a world that is simultaneously filled with the great passions he is without and about to burn to the ground. His actions feel empty. Increased purposeless activity defines every thought that breezes through his curly haired mind. The young man takes of his glasses and stretches and sings and screams and dances to change the way he sees the world.
He doesn’t need to change how he sees the world, however. The young man needs to change how he sees himself. How he treats himself.
Then it hits him, or me. I don’t see myself. I am blind to my own wants and ambitions. Transparency in my mind’s eye. I can see others so vividly. A bird’s nest of tangled hair being swept by the sea breeze or two ruby red lips curving to a smile revealing far more than just white teeth or a genuine chuckle in regard to a small forgotten statement made by me. I see people. I see everyone I love so clearly, but I do not see myself.
My mind, in response to this terrifying notion, struggles to create a facsimile of what I am supposed to be and what others have said they see in me. I try to warp and stretch my words to fit to hole I am.
Months go by without me ever even thinking of myself. Not in a heroic unselfish way, but in a plain way. I simply do not think of myself when I think of people. I do not meet whatever mark I preset. What qualifies a person in my eyes and why do I not meet these qualifications?
Maybe that is the purpose of me writing today.
A person must have life. A person must have joy and anger and sorrow and passion. I have no more complex ideas of what a person should be. So, why am I not seen? I have my joys. I love my friends and family. I immerse myself in reading and writing and acting. I know my anger is something I do not readily admit to, but it certainly exists. Sorrow is a near constant companion when I want the unobtainable.
I find passion in my joy, anger and sorrow. I am passionate about little things, but I am at a loss in one glaring regard. I have no passion for myself. I do not see what others see in me because I simply do not see anything.
Even now, these words I type are meaningless to me. They come off as a jumbled mess and confuse my senses. I fear that my memory betrays me. I wonder, what do other people see? Who is Jeffrey Fiene to them?
Who is Jeffrey Fiene to me?
Jeffrey Fiene feels old some days. Impossibly old and filled up. Jeffrey Fiene has extraordinary stamina and only tires when his body needs to. Jeffrey Fiene incarcerates himself in steely abandoned recesses in the dark parts of his mind so regularly that he forgets himself.
This past month I did just that. Jeffrey Fiene loves and cares and fights everyday. Jeffrey Fiene could learn to be a little more confident and a little more selfish. Jeffrey Fiene can accomplish whatever he wants.
I just need to remember that I am Jeffrey Fiene. I switch perspective to find a rope to grasp so I can pull myself back to the reality that is Jeffrey Fiene. I still struggle to see who that is. Perhaps because he is not anyone, not yet.
Jeffrey Fiene can be whoever I make him. The endless possibility of who I am and what I do is seen by me. I can pick the best parts and create myself.
I already have a few pieces, but why not take away what I despise and add what I can love? Why not create Jeffrey Fiene? I can make him real. I can give him substance. I can make him…I can make me who I want to be.