On most days I don’t like being myself. On most days the world doesn’t like me either. I’m aware of all my imperfections and mistakes, as if people forget I live with them, they send me reminders.
The truth is what I try to write but the reality is uglier. The reality is waking up everyday to face life when there is not any reason to keep up the charade. It feels as if I have gone insane every morning I walk through my routine so I can keep attempting to make a beautiful life. On most days I succeed but when I fail, I fail hard.
The world puts me in a box trying to make sense of who I am. I don’t understand why they want to know me at all if they’re already convinced that I am my past, my job, my name. I wish they’d put whatever labels they want on me and move on. But they need to tell me. What can I do but listen patiently- risk being called a hypocrite for not being able to take feedback/criticism? As if I don’t know that’s all I ever receive. As if I don’t know every label in the book you can put on me. As if I don’t try to forget them every single day so I can just try to be something I can appreciate.
You know they don’t write your destiny in your birth certificates because you are supposed to determine it. On most days I can’t wait to create something that will write my fate. On some days I can’t ignore I am a result of a series of unfortunate events. But on few days, I dare to lay it out for them to see. On a few days I am reminded I am a broken thing, made of broken pieces. And nobody likes a broken thing.
Nobody wants the brokenhearted.