Dear me, Where did you lose me?
Dear Me....Where did you lose me?
Dear Me,
I know you're tired. I know deep inside, you're yearning to be heard — and let me tell you, that's not a weakness. So here I am, quietly sitting with you, waiting. Waiting to listen, waiting to understand.
I see you. I see how you carry so much weight, even when it feels like no one else notices. I know how it feels to be surrounded by so many people and still feel so alone. It’s like being in a room full of voices and never hearing your own. It's heavy, isn't it?
Have you ever wondered when loneliness first crept in? When did it start feeling like a part of you? The messy thoughts, the feelings that refuse to stay tucked away... when did they begin? For me, it started around 12 or 13. It sounds so young, doesn't it? But that’s when it all began. Back then, I didn’t even know what it meant to “feel” — everything was just a blur, a collection of questions without answers.
I never really noticed anything... until I did. Until there was a sudden shift in the world around me, and everything felt more intense. There was no name for it then. No understanding. Just that strange, fluttering sensation in my chest that made everything feel... bigger. It was like the world became a canvas, and I was caught in the middle of a painting I couldn’t quite decipher.
But looking back, I understand now. It wasn’t supposed to make sense. The confusion, the messiness, the uncertainty — that was part of the journey. That was part of me. I see it now as a piece of this beautiful chaos called growing up.
It’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to not know who you are, to question what’s real, to wonder where you fit. Because somewhere in this mess, there’s growth. Somewhere in the struggle, there’s a version of you that is becoming, even if you can’t see it yet.
I may not have all the answers right now, and maybe I never will. But I’ll keep writing, even when the words don’t make sense. Maybe, one day, I’ll find the pieces of myself that I thought I lost. Maybe I won’t. But I’ll hold on to the little moments — the quiet, the stillness, the small victories — because even those are enough.
And through all of this, I’ve learned one thing: it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being real. The mess, the tears, the laughter, the awkwardness — all of it is a part of me. And that, in itself, is enough.
Till then, here's a poem that I wrote---
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