I haven't quite been myself lately.
The eternity it takes for me to fall asleep has changed from a time where I can create elaborate stories of heroines and beasts to stress about my past, present, and future.
The art I make has changed from childish sketches of imaginary friends to a detailed and precise representation of confusion.
My mind wonders away still, but instead is thinking of wonderful possibilities, I think of the harsh truth.
I eat more than I used to. There's no stopping it. It's never enough for me. So, I just continue till my stomach aches for a break.
I swim and I run. These constants in my life stay with me. Why? I ask. It used to be because I loved them. But as I stand in the mirror before practice, I realize it's become less for me and more for my body.
My family has become something new. The loving home I once cherished has turned to nothing more than a place I live in and share with strangers who think I'm ungrateful.
And maybe they're right, I think. Because I have these things, these pieces of myself, and they aren't enough for me to be happy.
Or maybe I never was and am only now realizing it. This thought chills my very soul, for how could someone never feel comfortable?
How could someone never feel like themselves?
How could I never be me?
