Of Oddities

Sometimes I wonder how we are not really us at all and just a collection of thoughts, thoughts that aren’t ours either. Our thoughts are influences. Of people. Of what we read, what we see, what we hear. We aren’t individually unique. I am more Robert Frost. More John Green. Less Shakespeare. Am I me, the original one at all? Seeing it this way, originality is a fake idea. A mere lie. But then again, how can I question who made me?

I wonder how someone in a far-off place from my bed in this small room in this small home of a small city might be reading the same words like I am. Someone might think the same as I do. Someone might like lying on the bed, feet propped up on cushions and stare at nothingness, to feel less empty like I do. 

Sometimes I also wonder if I really should care. I know that I’m not loveless but if I feel loveless most of the days, so does it mean I am less for loving? Do people talk about me behind my back and what do they talk about? I have always felt so out of place, so out of so many places, that I don’t even know whefe I fit anymore. Does it even matter? Does existence? I mean we all are just hurting each other by existence.

I stare at the fairylights I decorated in my bedroom all the time. There’s a fraction of second in which out of the three hues it features, all go blank. And then a color rises fading into another and then it does into another and then into darkness. I guess life is the same cycle. You try. You try and sometimes you fade into someone you might not want to be. You always create something, like a color rising. And at the end, you slip into darkness. Until another human being takes your place. Are we humans always a metaphor?

I’m addicted. Not to drugs. I can’t even think about drugs because there’s this condition of mine nobody has been able to pinpoint properly, perhaps it is mild asthma but it is not so much like an asthma. It is hard to explain but I can put it this way – my lungs are kinda sucker. I have pills for when it becomes difficult for me to breathe. I also wonder if I’m those pills more than a person. But I’m addicted to a particular song and a particular book so much that it almost scares me when I play that song on repeat and read that book over and over. And I’m addicted to people and I don’t think it is a good addiction to have. Perhaps people can kill you faster than drugs can.

I also wonder about how many ‘it was too late’s happen in this world. Ends that could’ve been prevented. Maybe we all have it somewhere. In love, in life. Circumstances in which choices could’ve been made. Maybe it is meant to be too late. Maybe some things are better off nonexistent anymore. Do I think about death? Of course I do. Everyone does. Death terrifies and fascinates me all the same. I’m not sure I’m a normal person anymore. I am emotional all the damn time. I feel the urge to burst out sobbing tightening around my throat all the time. I feel it swelling up, my face gets so hot and and I shake uncontrollably. But I keep holding it. Am I going insane? I don’t know. Maybe there was never an insane to go to. Maybe I already am. And I feel tired. I am tired. All the time. I like how English allows tired to be your identity and not just your condition. Tired is not my condition. It is the inseparable me. Maybe something original, really. But you can’t be other feelings. Like say, you can’t be love. Loved, but not love. I like tired. I like a lot of things normal girls don’t. I want to be normal and not be a crybaby and not be a haunt for deep thoughts and be gorgeous and pretty like other girls but I guess I didn’t follow them. I lost it all.

I just became an other kind of unoriginal human. Less, maybe. Weird, definitely.


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