It is hard and it is difficult.
I idle, even when I know I should not or that I have other matters, better matters to apply my time to. I look for pockets of void, the soothing emptiness that can only come with keeping the mind busy, but only the no good kind of busy. It’s inherently selfish in the sense it benefits no one but me, for no noble reason worth justifying, I cannot claim to have a saviour complex or any other self-righteous but helpful excuses.
I shamelessly turn again and again to nothingness, forcefully removing myself from my circle of friends for no reason other than ‘cus it’s easy when everything becomes heavy. To not exist is to not have anything or anyone I can claim, and nothing under my name means no responsibilities, the ultimate lack of worry and, in the worst way, my most serene state of being. Though, as I continue to relearn, it is also the undeniable lack of life, of meaning, of reasons to exist in itself. A paradox, really. How long, in an attempt to exist better in the future, can I feign non-existence until I'm completely and irreversibly gone?
My hubris is to think I can force myself to not exist without consequence. It lets me guiltlessly erase myself from the lives of those who care for me, sure, but definitely not without repercussions. You see, the catch of living in shadows for my own comfort is the discomfort I face when people move on from my inanimate form. Time and time again I have the nerve to be strikingly upset when they actually do.
Truth is I let people grieve my loss, my silence and my lack of effort until I’m strong enough to be seen, to be and to do what others do naturally, lacking to understand it’s too little too late. I appear as if no time has passed, feeling justified about how abandonment grows in me as if I didn’t force their hands. I feel deceived that time didn’t stop for them too, that they have moved on and met new people, grow closer to them as if my place in their heart was never even there. Misunderstood drowns me back into nothingness, convinces me that that right there is the reason why I never try at all. Except I do and to think that, due to my faults, my best will never be enough is even worse.
So I hide myself inside a casket, deep into the earth, and dare to think those who left me simply didn’t dig deep enough. Why would they, thought? Why would they hold onto something that looks and feels beyond gone? Furthermore, how could I be mad at not receiving something I have never asked for? Something no one could guess I could’ve wanted, something I’ve been careful not to show I’d want?
I think that’s where the betrayal starts.
Why hasn’t anyone got close enough to guess it? Wanted to, fought to see right through the dramatics and into my necessity to feel undressedly seen? To be known raw, to have someone force themselves into my life while giving me the grace of being an arsehole about it, to endure and see my acidic ways as nothing more than the fear hid underneath it, to see the barbwire as the artifice it is, a pretense so I won’t have to admit how much I long for it.
When I think too much about it, I feel a doomed sense of shame starting to close in, the embarrassment of having such childish and pointless thoughts. I fear I expect a saviour, a saint, a devoted being. I fear only I can be that to myself, even if it fills my mouth with bitter hatred since I’ve tried to be exactly that for people only to be outshined by those who could not give their all, not like I’ve intended to do time and time again. I know people can ‘cus I can, so the truth is no one has ever wanted.
Or maybe that is exactly it. I’m not blind enough, or stupid enough, to think everyone wants what I desire simply because I do, but I fail to understand why those who always seem the most nonchalant about it are the ones chosen to receive it.
Maybe the clinginess, the bare want, is undesirable in itself. I believe it makes sense that eagerness is counterproductive; no one wants to feel targeted, not even myself. I’m not a charity case nor someone to be pitied.
In the end, the cycle closes itself swiftly. I want it desperately but would never be caught dead asking for it so I fold onto myself, into a place I don’t need to feel it, with the consequence of stealing from everyone else the opportunity to become who I want them to. No one knows me ‘cus I made sure of it. Yet, when the nothing feels like too much, I fight my way back out of the trap solitude has always presented me with, so heavy with loneliness and so desperate for love and affection that I repel it unknowingly, only to fold right back into nothing once the possibility of rejection reminds me the appeal of seclusion.
I created for myself a rock I could never push uphill. I can not believe Sisyphus to be happy as much as I can’t pretend I am.
I’m a wild animal growling at every shadow of effort, until I’m not. Except I don’t know how to be anything but a brute, not when it comes to my own emotions. I couldn’t show soft flesh even if I wanted to, and I’ve wanted to many times before. It’s unnatural to me as much as it seems not worth of trust to others. I’ll go back into my cave anyway, so why would they try? I made myself unreliable time and time again, so why would they expect anything else? I’ll, eventually, go back to sharp teeth and no talk, so why soft spoken words would matter now?
They’ll enjoy me while they can, skimming the surface like they’ve always only been allowed, and they’ll be nice about it too. It’ll be small talk and life-changing news I never helped them decide about, and then they’ll leave for the people who did, who can match their needs, who aren’t starving and actually know how to use their wills. Then, I’ll be left free to return to the bed I made, the all-consuming silence I asked for, the nothingness I forged in fire.
In the end, I’m a product of my own beliefs, and I’ve always been the most indecisive of people.
