Blinked once and now I am here. Wishing the faded bright lights in the blue-black sky would connect, and spell out the steps that got me into this mess.
I’m waiting for VHS tapes of my life to fall out of the sky. So I can identify the villan in this plot. To figure out when I sold my soul to someone who does not care. But I know clouds of omnipotence will not dot the darkness above.
And they will not rain upon me tangible answers to these most pressing questions. I must search within myself to find out if there is a way back up from the bottom.
The bottom. But I should look at my circumstances objectively. Could things even be better?
The bitter irony, of knowing I am miserable even when I’ve reached the top. Feeling stuck, knowing over my head the sky, the place my wishes drift, is out of reach due to a glass fortress.
I wonder what is wrong with me. I wish I could see myself the way others do. The ones who roll their eyes at my complaints. Thinking I have no right to be anything less than content.
Do I damn myself to wonder infinitely why everything feels off? I no longer love the way the life carried through the air smells or the way things taste. Colors have become dull. Sounds that are tolerable to others are amplified to me, to the point to being unbearable.
And sometimes being alive feels like one big itch that I can not scratch.
I live much of my life inside my head. Wondering what my problem is. Hypothesizing, playing around with metaphysical concepts, dipping in and out of ideas, like a child fingerprinting, who is both learning and creating the shape of trees and rivers…
But I can not separate the truth of my life from the fiction. I feel guilt for harm I have not done. I feel a hero for carrying out heroic deeds I did not carry out. I fabricate memories. I fear the outcome for circumstances that are not my own. And perhaps that is what is off about me. I have become a stranger to those around me. I feel an invader crawling beneath my skin and altering my existence.
I try to remember that someone out there, someday, will like me. They will be patient with me, enough to endure my mood swings and irrationality. Until I grow tired and bored, burdened by the knowledge that I am a stranger to them still.
So I know I must find comfort in being alone. I must someday find pleasure in hearing the echo of my own voice, instead of the voice of praise from a lover who knows me only superficially. A lover who is, as much as God is, a stranger to me.
I wonder if someday I will understand why I am different, so I can understand how I can be so hopelessly human, so similar to everyone else.
How long can I smile and ignore my heart ache?
I’ve fallen in and out of love. I’m convinced that’s not the remedy to whatever I suffer. I’ll try whatever it takes to feel real. Until then, this is my life.