I certainly didn’t need the extra hour. Suddenly, I sleep more because I can afford to.
In the light of November, I noticed that October has already taken away all the autumn leaves, and there’s no more going back. I only regret not having gone for a second and last walk up the hill.
It got colder outside, and the snow rain has wet my feet and legs already.
I’m wearing the warmest hoodie that I brought from home last year. It hasn’t been washed up to this day, not in this place, which is why I’ve tried not to wear it as much. It smells of the washing detergent that my mum uses. I don’t know the name of it. I can’t get any of my clothes to smell homely like this hoodie, and it makes me sad, sad in a way that I can’t look after myself or make any place feel homey. And one way to prove that I can look after myself is to push people away. I push them away before I get too comfortable and before I feel like I’m taking them for granted. These are the good people that I care about.
I do my own shopping and help wherever I can, but I myself won’t ask for help. The fear is based on collecting debts. Even if not required, I would take the time to return the favour, and I don’t feel like I have the time. As terrible as it may sound, my gratefulness can be tiresome for me.
I’ve needed a lot of alone time recently. It’s all triggered by saying things I shouldn’t have. They accumulate and create a bad taste in the back of my tongue. If people think I’m socially awkward, then I probably am. I choose to walk away if I have nothing to say, and ultimately, they find me quiet and boring.
The lack of social skills, outgoingness and fun-to-be-with has put me under a lot of pressure, but no one sees that. The attempt to change it has been a burden because the job, relationship and environment require all these…traits, which I don’t have. I feel like people are expecting too much from me that it’s starting to hurt. For the first time in a year, I noticed how exhausted I am in my head because I’ve been investing so much time in things that I’m not.
In each new period of my life, I’ve tried to adopt these required traits to my life. And each time, I fail because I’m trying to be someone that I’m not. Every time I fake a smile or repeat a meaningless sentence, a part of me crumbles away. And every time you realise that you’re not part of the league, it’s because you are different. So do you condemn yourself for it? Why? You are in a club full of happy, dancing and drinking people – next to you is your loving boyfriend, who you know is part of this crowd, but he chooses to stand next to you while you’re soberly absorbing this overwhelming party scene. In the end, it didn’t matter how much I was looking forward to celebrating Halloween and how much I wanted to be part of it; I just wasn’t and couldn’t. It was beyond my ability to make it feel right. I was ready to go.
Before stopping people from having fun or getting accused of not trying to have fun, I was ready to go. I’m always ready to go. I didn’t want to drink, but if I could’ve snorted some cocaine, it would have made the goddamn music more bearable.
Even if I explain the torment in my chest, the words usually fall on deaf ears. It shall remain on paper–always and never be spoken of.
Either that or everyone is just a better actor like my friend Rob. You see happy selfies on all your social networks every day, and you get sick to the stomach. These people are clever. Laugh, and the world will laugh with you. Why not skip this part of attention and do something else instead, something more creative?
Some people want to be celebrated so badly; they show a smile in a selfie or tell everyone that they’re now organ donors. What a shame that I’m only interested in what they can’t talk about. This is why it’s so hard to be friends. And this is why I don’t have many friends here. I used to mourn over it every day. Then I tried to be like you, and it didn’t work. But that’s ok.
There’s nothing wrong with being who you are. I guess I’m too demanding and selfish, being on a never-ending search for inspiration and self-therapy. If you have nothing heartbreaking to share with me, I don’t have the ears to listen and feel alive with you. I can give you the best advice you’ll ever receive.
So I read stories with good plots. Not only do they help me remember and improve my English, but they also stir something inside of me that I love to investigate, such as inspirations that are worth developing. And eventually, they will be worth sharing. This is how you find people that understand you and empathise with you. Nowadays, people are too scared to share their souls, making me sad and want to put a gun in my mouth.
Perhaps they don’t trust me because I’m a writer.
I want to focus on my work whenever I can and piece together disjointed fragments of my bad writing, and envision an alternate reality that gives me space, just space. I need space.