Dear Diary
I am not thirteen anymore. Haven't been thirteen for a long long time. I have had no secret diaries since. I show almost everything I write. And don't care what comes of it. I am unafraid. On a deeper level, I am aware and absolutely sure nobody cares. So.
I am not thirteen anymore. I can get a drink when I like. I can go to the park unaccompanied. Read forbidden books. But sometimes there is no reason to get out of bed in the morning. Or even open my eyes. Of course, I have a job at which I am seasoned at under-performing. But besides that, supposing I didn't have the job, I wouldn't get out of bed and rub my cracked feet on the bed-sheet and stare at the ceiling. And I've done that. Sat on the couch all day, watching TV, nonstop for hours and hours. I wouldn't allow myself a spare moment lest I start thinking.
You see, I ain't thirteen anymore. I've got real problems. Problems that have very difficult or no solutions. And I cannot gather the enthusiasm to face them at all. I am a sloth and cannot change. I cannot adapt no more, Diary. Dearest. My problems are mine and I gotta watch TV to keep it out of my head, I've discovered that's the secret to my short term complacence, if not joy, and I stick to it. With devotion and sincerity.
I compare myself with others. Not all the time. But when I do, I crumble into tears. Mostly in the washroom at work. Thank god for tissue huh. I just cannot figure out though what have I done not to deserve the happiness that is there in the lives of others aplenty. After I wipe my tears I promise I will be grateful for what I have, that I will manage my expectations, but I forget soon enough, Diary. What do I do, Where do I go.
I have this constant palpitation like thing in my chest. I fear I am missing out, on everything others are reaping benefits from. That I am falling behind. I would like to project joy. But I cannot. I stench of my own self pity.
Help me,
The one who is not thirteen anymore
I am not thirteen anymore. Haven't been thirteen for a long long time. I have had no secret diaries since. I show almost everything I write. And don't care what comes of it. I am unafraid. On a deeper level, I am aware and absolutely sure nobody cares. So.
I am not thirteen anymore. I can get a drink when I like. I can go to the park unaccompanied. Read forbidden books. But sometimes there is no reason to get out of bed in the morning. Or even open my eyes. Of course, I have a job at which I am seasoned at under-performing. But besides that, supposing I didn't have the job, I wouldn't get out of bed and rub my cracked feet on the bed-sheet and stare at the ceiling. And I've done that. Sat on the couch all day, watching TV, nonstop for hours and hours. I wouldn't allow myself a spare moment lest I start thinking.
You see, I ain't thirteen anymore. I've got real problems. Problems that have very difficult or no solutions. And I cannot gather the enthusiasm to face them at all. I am a sloth and cannot change. I cannot adapt no more, Diary. Dearest. My problems are mine and I gotta watch TV to keep it out of my head, I've discovered that's the secret to my short term complacence, if not joy, and I stick to it. With devotion and sincerity.
I compare myself with others. Not all the time. But when I do, I crumble into tears. Mostly in the washroom at work. Thank god for tissue huh. I just cannot figure out though what have I done not to deserve the happiness that is there in the lives of others aplenty. After I wipe my tears I promise I will be grateful for what I have, that I will manage my expectations, but I forget soon enough, Diary. What do I do, Where do I go.
I have this constant palpitation like thing in my chest. I fear I am missing out, on everything others are reaping benefits from. That I am falling behind. I would like to project joy. But I cannot. I stench of my own self pity.
Help me,
The one who is not thirteen anymore
2 comments:
I care very much and I empathise, you are never alone in your struggle as you will always be in someones thoughts albeit far away.
Take care, God bless and stay strong.
I found the last bit so relatable, I've read it more than fifty times.
P.s. You write beautifully. I visit your blog for artistic inspiration.
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