I have never given birth to a child, heard a small voice call me mother, nor felt a tiny body burrow against me in perfect slumber, eyes winking out like small stars, a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing. I bet when I bring life into this world, maybe one day; at that hour my heart will break into a million pieces. Then, will I have lived?
And at last; I am myself. No more but that, myself, I--a part divided by curiosity and habit, a sum over parts; a dash of color on a masterpiece that spans time and space, small and hidden under some other pigment.
It is here that I ask, Have I Ever Lived?
And what is living? I know nothing of England. How do they run their parliament? Do they even have a parliament? Why are people so factitious about the Queen? What is a day like in the life of a person who lives in England? I picture them all watching telly and dreaming of fish and chips, and using the loo.
Those mythical beings who live over land and sea in that faraway place called "England" don't even know I exist. They don't wake every morning and draw breath from my body and wonder, what will I do today? Nor does the thought of me ever cross their mind. And my ideas of what they eat and sleep and say and do are just shadows, just ideas of the real England--and I'll never capture it.
And I'm still here. Living. Breathing. And thinking about you.