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Me

I am empty, empty as an old mailbox with no home to be paired with. I don’t mean for this to be poetic in anyway because it’s true.

Alive is a term I can no longer grasp. I move and I talk and I feel – well I pretend to feel. Like a puppet on a string I move they way I poise myself to, the way I want to show myself to others. But when there is no one to show, who am I? I play myself to a room full of people that are not here and I do not know what to do. I do not know what to make of it.

The music I have playing is loud because it takes the place of a real body, a real person’s voice and the company. Too long of being lonely leaves a person empty, and I am empty now.

I am worried, but only worried. I am so full of empty emotions that make no sense and have no place to be. I play pretend in my mind and for so long it’s been my reality, it’s how I’ve been living. My mind is my reality, but it’s not real. It’s nothing I can touch, only pretend. Only false situations and conversations that I create and halfheartedly control.

To be so empty is a sin, no one should be so empty. It isn’t painful, because there is nothing to hurt. But it is sad, and it’s unbearable, it’s everything that’s wrong.

I’m tired. I’m tired of talking like I have something to say, I’m tired of listening to someone who has no idea about me. I’m tired of moving this body that has no reason, and I’m tired of living in a way that is hardly that. But I cannot change it for I have nothing to change.

No longer do I feel excited or happy, they both end too soon or are crushed and that makes it just not real any more.

I write to pretend to feel things I want to feel in characters I want to be. To be someone else would be my bliss, my happiness.

I don’t miss for there is nothing to miss and I don’t know what to want. Maybe to feel? To live with a life that fills me. To feel hurt so I can feel pleasure.

The opposite of worry is to relax, and relaxing is doing nothing. It’s not feeling at all. Relaxing is to do and be nothing just to finally be able to rest. Worry is to be unsure and to not want the worst to happen though you truly believe it’s to happen anyway.

I fear being forgotten and lost, but how am I to remembered when I leave nothing to be remembered by? Maybe that’s also why I write.

I refuse to write in pencil because it gets smudged with time and erased. I fear being erased.

This is true, what I write, and I cry because it is sad, because it is so terribly sad.

I’m tired of playing pretend with myself.

But what is there left to do?

I’m just trying to survive.

 

– Steph

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