The gang’s going out for dinner as I type. I’m not joining them tonight. I just came out of the shower. I dislike rushing myself to get ready to go out. And I’m not that hungry anyway. I have other things on my mind.
There’s this feeling inside of me that I can’t quite put into words. It’s like having a perpetual weight inside of me. Weighing me down. Preventing me from getting away. A friend commented that it seems hard to make me truly excited about something. Which I think is quite true, to her credit. What she doesn’t know about is the weight inside. That’s the reason for my lack of enthusiasm. That’s the reason I can’t be truly happy.
So, what is this weight then you ask? Like I said, it’s hard to explain. It would be difficult even for me to pinpoint it’s source. Though I have a vague idea of the things that might trigger this feeling. Silly things, they are. A word. A comment. A gesture. Anything. Then the weight comes crashing down.
At times, I have my own doubts. Doubts about myself, and a lot other things. I have my insecurities. I have my very own green-eyed monster inside that pounces at the slight provocation. I have this, I have that. I don’t think there is a way of getting rid of it all. And more than once, I caught myself hoping that things or people would just go the way I want them to. Even if I know that that’s not quite possible. Still, I hope for it.
I do not know what I can do to make myself feel better. I do not know how to make myself happy. Oh wait, I think I do. If I pretend to be completely oblivious to my insecurities, if I pretend to be oblivious to the many things that might trigger the feeling, I think I would be quite happy. Unfortunately, I can’t. I simply cannot fool myself into thinking that. Therefore, I am still where I am when I first started out.
Sometimes, I wish that someone would be able to read my mind. To get the things that I can’t bring myself to say out loud ’cause when I do, it sounds like a silly, petty, whiny worry that doesn’t make much sense. I wish that someone would be able to read and understand the overwhelming emotion inside of me that causes me to be like this. And not to dismiss it like a silly little thing.
And I think I would have to keep on wishing. Because reality is never really quite the same as fiction.