Some days, I feel so small and inconspicuous. I feel mundane, the weight of routine weighing down on my excitement, going about the same processes day in day out. Wake up, and do the same morning routine over and over again. See the same few people with little variation, do the same things, talk about the same topics. It’s not that I don’t appreciate these people, I really do, and life without them would be a hundred times worse; it’s just that sometimes I question if this is what’s in for me—could there ever be a change, and if so, would I really embrace change?
Occasionally, you see different sides of the same people. You see the girl whom you once thought was quiet and reserved, talking endlessly about things that might be inappropriate a little too loudly, under the influence of alcohol. You see the boy who is usually loud and a little rowdy, have a soft and caring side, a seriousness that is very attractive, alongside characteristics that he usually does not display. You see the gentlest of people cook up a storm, and the noisiest subside into a gentle breeze, a light drizzle after a thunderstorm.
And suddenly, everything becomes a lot less boring. Oftentimes, we try too hard to conceal the parts of ourselves that we are too afraid to expose. We try so hard to build up a facade of our own image, an image that we wish to be associated with, even when it’s nothing like who you really are. We have a perfect society full of imperfect people, and I wonder why we bother to try so hard to fit in when nobody ever fully fits in.
I have a hangover. My entire body aches and my muscles scream for help. I have dirty laundry all over the floor, and my lips are stained red with the raspberry vodka I had last night. I look like I have lipstick on. My hair is a complete mess, my eyes are tired and dazed. There is a bruise on my face just below my lips, and I can’t remember how I got it. Looks like a battle scar, but I’m absolutely positive I didn’t pass out last night. It hurts, but not as much as some of the things I’ve heard. It’s true that alcohol makes one a lot more honest, and sometimes candour is the best way to hurt, to internally kill someone else. But then, I may have been just too sensitive, as I have always been more inclined to be. I put too much emphasis on words; I let words break me too easily. Some people’s words are so cheap. I’ve spent an entire lifetime coming up with the right words to say and I still struggle with my words, so how is it that certain people can throw their words around so carelessly, like it didn’t matter at all?
There are a lot of areas that I think I am inadequate in. In fact, I am inadequate in every single plausible area of life that I can possibly associate myself with. I am flawed in every area, every nook and cranny of my existence. Even though I know that the people around me are equally flawed, it doesn’t ease the discomfort in me knowing that at certain points in time unbeknownst to me, I have made someone unhappy, whether minor or major, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I hate that feeling of disappointing someone, and I cannot decide whether I would rather have their disappointment in me verbally conveyed, or kept in silence. Both seem equally hurtful.
Amongst all my insecurities and flaws, all my mistakes and challenges against the law, I would like to believe that my wellbeing is being more than deservingly taken care of. My life, in all ways, is privileged. I am happily attached to someone who treats me like I am everything that matters, and the reason behind that is a question I will spend my life to answer. I am privileged to be able to send and receive genuine messages of love and affection, oftentimes with a hint of playfulness and naughtiness, but love at its most sincere form nonetheless. I am privileged to be given a gift with my words, how my words flow so smoothly, that my thoughts and soul can be conveyed without too much physical exertion. I have done something right in this life, but I do not know what it is I have done. I’ll just have to be thankful, be loyal to my morality, be someone I won’t regret becoming.
There are a lot of things I do not know, but those that I do, I try my best never to abuse them.
I think that I think a little too much, read a little too hard into trivial issues. But I’m always the one who looks at the small details, the fine print. I think about times where I have slightly angered people for the smallest reasons, like horning at my friend in front of me playfully while I was driving. He’s probably long gotten over it, but I still find it impossible to fully rid myself of this bad feeling, and I suppose telling myself that “everyone has their flaws” is not a very responsible way of evading my consequences.
I’ve never been good at handling guilt. Can anyone ever be ethically skilled at facing their own guilt?
This post is becoming too lengthy, too verbose. I know I am fully capable of being verbose, sadly, but I haven’t yet found a reason good enough to change that aspect of me.
Oh, the tyranny of being trapped in my own thoughts.
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