Uncertainty seeps into the fiber of my very being as I breathe the morning air. I have no idea who I am, it’s a new day and I will morph into today’s character. I play it well, because I’ve done it a thousand times over. I feel nothing and I don’t know myself well enough to tell you anything and yet I have to pretend like I do because your pithy questions are exhorting answers from me. How do you look at me and go, ”she has the answers?” I know you don’t want me to lie, but you leave me no choice sometimes.
I’ve no idea what I have. I just go a little crazy sometimes but that’s okay because we can’t have it all in life. I’m proud of what I have and I think nothing is worth losing it for, I welcome the crazy with open arms because a modicum of happiness requires a lifetime of self-sacrifice. I’m willing to do it, there’s nothing that’s worth this kind of life, this kind of wise. Even my erstwhile teenage self would agree, she lived to this age without injury so ephemeral bouts of misery are nothing to lament over.
My heart is coaxed within a fortress of indifference that rarely ever flounders. But when it does cave, I experience all sorts of contradicting emotions that barely make sense to me. I mean, do you ever wonder why you cry? Because I cry for no reason at all. And I don’t want science to tell me that my hormones, or my chemical make-up or my cerebral wiring is responsible for that shit. I am responsible for my own misery and I take full responsibility for it. This is the only thing that I’ll ever plead guilty to. This is just the way I am and I do not think, I am in any way, defective. If anything, this extra dose of self-awareness makes up for all the perceived defects.
I don’t like people very much, even those who are close to me. The more they open up to me, the more they make me want to run away. Funnily enough, there’s a wellspring of purity in me that expresses an aversion to fake shit. I don’t understand why people are inherently so hostile and petty to one another and I don’t want to be part of their mediocrity. Early on, I learnt to focus on the world around me; the beauty of the universe and its deep mysteries, literature and music, movies and art. I had no interest in their histrionics. But I’m getting sucked into it, nonetheless.
What can I do, I’m just a tiny girl in an even tinier world. I know I have an ugly soul and an even uglier perspective, but it doesn’t bother me at all. Deep down, I’m a good person, I’m objective and realistic and I champion goodness above all. It’s just that, I’m too familiar with the human condition to find the beauty in it. It’s just not feasible, it’s preposterous to think of a human being that’s perfect because no one is perfect and yet, we’re supposed to accept those imperfections and love them as they are. But I’m loath to say, I’m a perfectionist.
I make tons of mistakes whose significance will only hit me when it’s way too late to act upon them. I’m not gullible but I trick my mind into being gullible at times, because the girl gotta live, you know. I would say that I’m not guided by any sort of underlying moral principles but you’d think I’m a sociopath, which I’m not, I’m just sort of autistic. But because I’m a girl, the autism doesn’t reveal itself too often. Girls can be shy and reserved and depressed, I mean, who cares right. I feel sad for autistic boys for whom there’s no respite from this awful disease, from the pitiless glare of the world.
I’m a discursive writer and a garrulous participant in motivational inner talk. I’m self-effacing because I despise narcissism and I possess an iota of self-awareness that keeps me grounded. I’m thankful for that. I’m no better than the guy who sweeps the streets or a crackhead. It would be stupid to compare myself to anyone at all, because the only thing the world hasn’t assigned a pecuniary value to is, the human self. Okay yeah, we need money to be alive but isn’t it just beautiful that capitalism hasn’t yet destroyed the idea of the self? You’d think that years of capitalism would culminate into the irrevocable destruction of the self, but I guess we still have a few years left. A few years with a ticking bomb.
I feel numb but I’m not unhappy. I am cold but I want to share the little warmth I have with the world. I am stupid but blessed with an intelligence that I rarely ever use. I am young but I feel so old inside that I might as well dig my own grave and hide.
Don’t take any of this seriously. If anything, imagine the curve of a smile as I conclude this very ambiguous piece. Everything is funny.