I remember when I was a child more vividly than most. Perhaps it is because I never really left that boy. I never turned from him, but in many ways I remained lost. I am perhaps the only true “lost boy,” trapped in a neverland of my own creation.
I am a lost soul, in a world that moved on. I sit in a corner, my arms wrapped around my legs. It is dark where the boy lives and the voices are always there. Some days there are hands clawing at his knees, some days there are only voices whispering bad things in his small ears…he is always frightened. Even now in the guise of an old man, he is scared.
What frightens him is how he makes himself breathe. How every day he forces air in his lungs and begins the day. How his life has always been that first breath and each breath after was for those in his life, never for himself. Imagine it…
To keep breathing so as to not let them down. To live, so no one has to hurt at the loss of him. In essence living not for himself, but for everyone else. Given the choice, the boy would stop forcing the breath and let the wind flow from his lungs and sleep without worry. An impossible dream for the boy who became a man and still lives for those who need him…never for the one that needs him most.
The lost boy.