Lies and half truths
There was never any real reason behind any of my actions before I even had the liberty of deciding for myself. Yet the question lies on when did I start having the capability of doing so, or if I even have it now. If you were to ask me what propelled me to write this in the first place, you’ll find that I’m as lost as I can be, and that my mind is not as organized as I’d like to think it is.
Was I always as foolish as I thought myself to be? Or was there a point in which I realized the lies I’ve been told? Knowledge seems to just appear in the most intricate parts of my mind as if it existed and belonged there from the start, for I can’t recall the exact moment it formed and nestled itself inside of me. Yet I fall prey again and again, over and over, of the things I’ve been bestowed upon, the things I never asked for, and wield them without contempt. It is a weight, I suppose, nobody expected me to carry, but I took it upon myself to never complain about.
It is a letter of sorts to whoever cares enough to read it through, to gaze into the mind of a lonely girl, surrounded by love and wealth, yet unable to enjoy it in the least. Nothing is amiss at a first glance, my life has been planned out from the start and I can’t disagree with it. The guilt they pushed into me from a young age makes it nearly impossible for me to rebel against this thing I call injustice.
But years of staying silent have done enough damage in me. I often wonder if my discomfort comes from a rightful cause, or if I really am as ungrateful as my progenitors claim. My judgement has always been flawed by emotions I can’t truly control, and therefore my stories could hold no truth at all, without me realizing it.
Call me a fool if you want, but what do I know but the things I’ve seen and experienced? I’ve been living behind a shield ever since my existence was created, and a wall erected itself between me and the world beyond; and as much as I’d like to cross it, that’s a decision that doesn’t belong to me. I am bound to the future they expect me to have and doomed to dream of the one I’d like to forge for myself.
But approval, it seems, is what motivates me to keep on moving, even when I feel myself slipping away, far from the person I was bound to become and closer to the one I feared the most.
I lost all sense of self. I’ve been drained of energy at the tender age of eighteen. And even though I haven’t lived I hold no optimistic expectation for the future. I’m tired and restless at the same time, and I can feel the years passing me by with each day feeling like a new weight I have to carry. I’m only waiting for my back to break and for my legs to give out.
Have you ever felt like every step is a battle you fight against yourself? Like every breath is a torture only you’re aware of? Like you don’t want to move or speak because the exhaustion is so big that it’ll drain you entirely?
Have you ever felt adrift?
Even though you know, deep down, that those are lies?
Because what am I but a liar? I tell stories of pain and suffering. Of war and decay. I play the hero and make myself a martyr. But am I really? Can you tell a lie from the truth? Can you twist reality so much that you don’t even know what’s real and what’s not? Have I always lied? Have I always told the truth? Can you look me in the eye and tell me you know me?
I have layers and layers of complicated problems and insecurities. Yet I carry the mask of apathy like a badge of honour. I hold myself with pride when all I feel is shame. And I spill truths in the comfort of a home that stopped feeling like one a long time ago. I write my tragedies and painful thoughts as if they’re worth anything more than words that nobody will ever read.
So here I lay bare and vulnerable for the world to see and judge. Waiting for a verdict to condemn me for the supposed crimes I have committed. And though I believe in no god, I will wait for the punishment I deserve, like a sinner without shame.
For what is the greatest sin, but being human