Things always went my way. Some people said this with some hubris, a cloud of arrogance hanging over them, but me? No. I meant it. I spoke the truth.
Facts were all I had and they served me well.
Since being a small child, I had the world at my disposal. Small chunks of the world taken off, bit by bit, and handed to me on a golden platter (no, silver was not acceptable). Even as a small child, I knew the power that lay at the tips of my fingers, the very ends of my strands, the farthest synapses of my brain. What I wanted, was done.
I was a God.
But then, once I was reassured in my power, I fell. For all the things I had desired, the places I had conquered, the people who I dreamed of and left, I could not fall in love. Time and time again, they fell for me, as I had decreed. But I could never reciprocate. Tried as I might, as many feelings as I felt, as much as I had them shower me with gifts and romantic escapades, love escaped me. And then I would throw that person away, convinced that they were not the one, that it was them who were unworthy of my love and that was why I could not give it.
The lies we tell.
What is more terrible than to have everything, but the ability to love someone else?