What shit am I trying to pull?

This isn’t a game. I’m not a character in a play. I don’t have dreams of the Canterbury Tales or Faerie Queene. I’m not that kind of romantic. Why do I pretend so much?

It’s been eating me up inside. I’m not sure what it is, but I’ve been forcing it out of me – or trying to. I laugh too hard and I smile too widely. I talk unnecessarily and I explain myself too often. I’ve given up on being who I am in favour of acting.

But why?

Because being yourself is vulnerable? Because I’d rather have an excuse as to why he wouldn’t call back or why my friends have been ignoring me? Because I don’t want to admit that it’s my fault?

And so I over-compensate. I pretend I’m this cultured artist who knows everything about the 19th century and has ever given a damn about the 18th. I pretend my poetry means shit, but I’m practically a little kid doodling with crayons and forcing their parents to hang it on the fridge.

I want to destroy it all. I want to get rid of whatever it is that’s so fake within me. I don’t know how it came to be this, but it’s making me depressed and anxious. It’s making me want to run away – from my friends, my family, myself…

I couldn’t say who I am, but I know who I am not. I am not this.


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