Maybe we can jump together. |
Quite often, I find myself questioning whether or not I am real; whether or not I am alive. It's hard for my brain to reconcile the life I have now, and the life that I used to live— the person I used to be. How is it that I grew up a real girl, with real childhood friends, and memories, and yet, here I sit, a dull husk, at the young age of nearly twenty-six? Perhaps, my brain cannot logically accept the two jarringly different lives I have lived. Or is it simply my heart that cannot handle the truth...? I mean, how could it? To accept my own existence— my current, soul-sucking state of being— would also be to accept the memories of the past, and all of the relationships and people I have lost along the way; not just one or two, here and there, but nearly every.single. person. contained in the 'good memories' that I know I am supposed to look back on with fondness, but now have come to only plague me. All of them— gone. Seemingly in the blink of an eye— I am left alone. Is it any wonder that I prefer to stay detached? As much as I detest this numb, monotonous purgatory I am swathed in, would dwelling in the world of the living really be worth it, if living meant feeling all of the agony and loss? Am I just supposed to pray that after all of my ex-lovers, ex-best friends, and everybody in between, have taken their pieces of me, ripped them from my body, and left, I just might be left with enough tattered shreds of myself to make something new and move on? What are the chances on that bet? I want so badly to be fearless— to go all-in, on me. I know 'the house always wins,' and it may be a moot point, but I want to live. I just need somebody to push me. |