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.
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.