Weary

Once upon a time the days were lazy and feathery blue, but that was long ago.

These days are caked in murky stress, inner conflict and fake half-smiles.

Never before have I waged a war this big against myself, wondering who I am and what I’m going to do about it.

Never before have I waded so deeply in that swamp of small regrets that stack up and up and up.

Meanwhile, I struggle to side track my train of thought, pulling levers and pushing buttons  I never knew existed before.

I look up to see my train about to crash, about to enter a wall of emotion that I’m not ready to handle.

I know deep down that that wall will never disappear, but meanwhile I squeeze my eyes shut and frantically switch lanes, foolishly trying to wish the wall away like humans always do.

Outside of my brain, which is as whiny as my sixth grade diary, my friends rely on me to be the one who has it under control, they trust me to listen to their problems, to council them on their issues.

I knew I was setting myself up when I told them they could always count on me, they could always come to me.

They’ve come to believe that I’m the one who never doubts myself, who’s never sad or angry or anything but calm and happy, who exists only as their friend, and not as myself.

So I come home weary, weary of them and weary of me.

I pour out my feelings at midnight, in the hazy dark.

I can say what I want to you, who is reading this, because I am a nothing without a name here, I am a silent force pouring out my melted thoughts.

Once upon a time, I thought that everyone was happy, but I was wrong.

There are so many ways to feel about this world, this life, this existence.

It’s impossible to choose just one.

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