Where do I begin, where do I start. This isn’t a story, nor a rant. Where do I commence then? This is a reflection, a journey of discovering me.
It’s raining outside, the wind is cold. The lights are out aside for the bed lamp, and here I am typing away. I have a guest tonight, she’s passed out though. So here I am, staring out of my window, feeling the breeze hit me, hit me so hard that I feel right at home, the harsh cold throne. A lot’s on my mind, so much that it’s isolating me from everything around me. I can still think straight though, that’s all that matters; but these thoughts, these urges, ah. Everyday more of me dies, and as it does, the more I smile. It’s a great feeling to go through this transition, a great feeling to be with my inner monster, my inner self. The best part though, the best feeling of it all, is how no one knows. No one knows what it’s like on the inside, deep in this hollow body.
One the outside I’m great. The lovable nice guy, always helping out, always laughing, and generally there for you whenever I’m needed. Dare I say it’s all pretend? It’s just a mask? Perhaps. I know a lot of good friends, a lot. Even new friends I get to know, I find out a lot about them fairly rapidly. What about me though? How much do you know about me? It’s rhetorical, you know nothing. Countless nights I’ve spent laying in bed, eyes wide open and staring into the ceiling. “What are you thinking of?”, “Nothing”. What would it be like to just be normal for once? To be able to answer such mundane questions, to talk freely, to connect.
Connect is a fascinating word. To establish a rapport or relationship. Why is it that I’m so easy to connect with, but impossible to connect to? I know too much of everyone’s problems. No one knows a thing about mine. Funny part is, it’s not even a defensive thing, it’s actually offensive. The greatest defense can be broken down by a greater offense. That’s a post of its own though.
I’m not broken, my ability to care is.