I am unsure when or why it began—that subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.
That child, in her world, was at peace. That is what I think, at least. She was beautiful, born to a humble Christian family, and grew up in the church. The world favored and doted on her, knowing she was made for greatness. With all she had, she never wished for more. She was happy. In a time when she never gave much thought and took each day as she was given. A child who smiled with the magnitude of the sea, one who laughed with the echo of a thousand bells, who shined with the praise of a billion stars. Enveloped with love and kindness, there was hardly a soul she didn't touch. She was brave, outspoken, friendly, loved, and happy. Most importantly happy.
But I'm not.
My world has been confined to my head. A cage. It keeps its content in and everyone else out. In this raging war fought by Me, Myself, and I against billions of adversity, captained by Mental Disorders. I did not feel beautiful. Even if surrounded by a billion mirrors, unlying and undistorting, revealing outer beauty. I cannot see it. I am blinded by Self-Deprecation, a general in this war. My family feels like hands wrapped around me in a tight, warm embrace, choking the little life left in me. Every hope of freedom is snuffed and stamped out. In this haze of billions of people, would the world even remember me? Caked in dirt and grime, chained to the bottom of a mud pit, is there anything to be doted on? A never-ending feeling of dissatisfaction is my daily coat. Never being enough and never having enough. Am I happy?
My comrades in war are traitors, hurling every hurtful word they can think of before I even hear it elsewhere. Me screams that no one cares so why do I bother? Myself supporting and telling me no one would notice if I disappeared. I must be the fool, considering that I want to test out their theories. Any smile or bit of happiness is drowned in the sea, shattered with the ringing of a thousand bells, and dulled under the weight of a billion stars. Enveloped with fear and misery, there is hardly anything to see, want, feel...love. Unable to speak up, God! Is there something wrong with me? No. No, it's the wrong question. A more suitable way to phrase it would be to ask if there was anything right with me. I am a coward. Unable to speak up, unable to receive love if at all it is given to me. The most important factor has been missing for years. They ask me "Are you happy?"... Am I happy?...
I don't know.
YOU ARE READING
UNTITLED
PoetryA burden-free place to store my short works. Although it has a mature tag, I think anyone could read it. If you stumble on it and decide to take a peek... Have a good read. Without my consent, no one has the right or permission to repurpose or repos...
