Sometimes I feel like my life is a beautiful, melancholy song that only I can hear. This is an example of something that would confuse those around me if I were to say it aloud; that’s the problem with the people I know. I have to feed them a less-nutritious version of myself, one that has been over-processed and coated in falsity. School is a harsh realm where I’m sure I’ll be persecuted for being myself. Sometimes the whole world feels like that to me. No matter where I am, I’m always afraid that something I say or do will be met with a condescending glare or a lecture on how I am strange, or that some new completely wrong opinion of me will be formed.
“Let me in,” people say. “I’ll understand. I promise.” There is no point. I’m not even sure that anyone can ever be truly understood. And anyway, in order to actually understand me, a person would probably have to be pretty messed up. I might not even let them in, either. I hate most people so much a lot of the time that my first impulse is to reject their advances.
But there are, every now and then, lonely days, when I wish that I had someone to just sit with, no talking. Someone who could decode my silences rather than try to fill them by incessantly asking, “What’s wrong?” like a wind-up toy. I sometimes dream of meeting this person. I wish it would happen soon, before my mind collapses in on itself from a total lack of meaningful interaction.
Almost every conversation I have had lately has been so hollow that I now question my former affection for any of the people I’ve been talking to. Which of those feelings were real, and which were based on my not seeing things clearly for what they were? I’m sick of pretending that I like some of these people, but I feel obligated to. I wish I could scream at people who hurt me, cry without being judged, and just feel. ♦