It is wiser to look at anyone and remember that they too have cried in the bosom of nothing, lost their will to live, missed their mother’s breast, subtracted parts of themselves to fit easily into another’s life and tripped while no one was watching.
The question of, “is it only me?” reminds me that we aren’t paying attention. I could write metaphors about my unique mystical existence and how kind I’ve been to strangers and how hurt I am by the atrocities I’ve seen but, “is it only me?” suggests that you have never watched a sunset or enjoyed another’s saliva in your mouth. It implies that you haven’t taken a deep dicking and cried at your expansion. I could pretend I’m a Victorian youth milky and plump in my soiled dress talking to God while his other half fucks me in my sleep. I could romanticize anything in the right hypnotic trance I use to lure whatever I feel like manifesting. I could play pretend, nope, I don’t see a thing and keep moving my limp limbs in unison with the trees and bake my skin in the hot sun and call it perdition.
But I’d rather take my chances at knowing I’m just like you, and hate myself for it.