I never really know how my day is going to pan out.
Maybe I do.
There are two types of days that I have. Either it flies by – hours passing rapidly each time I look at a clock – or it drags. The days when it drags are the worse. I can sit there for what seems like hours, just thinking about life. Usually, I’m wondering if this is it. This is as good as it gets. Hope doesn’t exist for me. I’ve been sad for so long that a day of calm nothingness is something I welcome. Sadness never really goes away. The older I get, the harder it gets to pretend that I’m okay with being alone. On the other hand I don’t know how not to be alone. I have plain old anxiety, social anxiety – probably more but to me that’s normal. Being a wreck is normal. I’m tired of it. Every year I declare that this will be the year of change and every year I revert back to old habits. Shut myself away from the world. I’m scared of being burnt. So I stay away from the flickering flame that masquerades as life.
Some days, I want to live a little. See what’s out there. Show people that I’m not that quiet, weird girl.
Other days I just want to be left alone. I don’t want to join the charade or pretend that life is this amazing thing I’m missing out on. When you fade away into the background, you see things for what they are. Some might call me jaded.
Maybe I am.
But I don’t pretend. In a world full of pretenders, I’m one of the anomalies. It’s kind of fucked up because apparently that’s normal. Or society’s perception of normal. Pretending is normal.
I don’t want to squeeze myself into that box but yet, the weight of not fitting in is heavy. Tiring. It shouldn’t be this way but it is.
It’s okay to be different but only if you’re the right kind of different. All of the rules make no sense but people live by them. How they don’t find it overwhelming is a mystery to me.
Perhaps they’re pretending.
I wonder if that means that I’m tired of being real.