A Pen in the Rain
A Diary Entry of Some Sort.
You know, I’ve been a good sport my entire life. I have smiled during storms that left me tattered with debris. I have sat and listened to heroes become nobodies. I have loved people who used me and have sheltered people who left me. When I was smiling, I should have been crying. Maybe that’s why all my feelings confuse me. I never actually let myself be okay with what I was in tuned with. Acceptance wasn’t the issue, feeling the volume, the circumference, the totality of what I felt was the issue. I’m afraid that if I feel everything in its fullness, then I would be consumed.
I can feel the anxiety tightening itself into my arteries as I begin to react to the slightest of stimuli. Right now, I can’t handle feeling anything because it sends me spiraling into a pit of rumination and creating scenarios that have not happened. Sometimes my mind is my own worst enemy, so I don’t feed it anything because if I give it anything, it won’t digest well. So right now, the only thing I hear are the taps on my laptop, and the thunder and rain in the backdrop. Even that is almost too much.
I have also shut off my phone because so many opinions and lives live on it in that manufactured reality. We were never supposed to know that much about everyone. We were never supposed to be inducted into the madness of everyone’s chaos. We were never supposed to be so mindlessly connected, that we were interpersonally disconnected. The loss the collective endures is one I am too connected to, and I am contemplating removing myself from the chaos. I don’t want to chase anymore connections. I don’t want to have any more conversations full of pleasantries.
Maybe I’ll become the stranger.