Interesting adj. - arousing curiosity or interest; holding or catching attention.
Not a word to describe my life. Boring, mundane or average might be a good one. Honestly nothing I do seems to fit that word. Unless you count a global pandemic and even that's sorta meh. (Not that I did that) No zombies, not even some anarchy. Just staying home and muddling through the days.
It's summer and I can't even do normal things. Except for hanging out with friends. That's interesting for a time, yeah it's fun but its not like we're breaking any knew ground. It's sorta strange though. Whenever I'm with friends its a strange mix of freedom and fear. I feel as if I can be myself around them and at the same time I seem to still have these walls. Walls that are still me but only a part of me. Smiles and laughs, higher energy, sorta chaotic. Yes that's me. But I'm more than that. I'm deeper than that, but I'm scared to show that part of myself. Scared to be vulnerable. But that's nothing new, I've known that for a while.
The only place I truly feel free and unburdened is in my own mind. Worlds upon worlds, characters, some original, some old friends. Worlds of my own and some born from the words of others.
Some people call it just an overactive imagination to me it's home.
That is a place where my lives are interesting. I can be a hero, a villain, a warrior. I'm brave, strong, I'm bold, not burdened by depression and anxiety. I can be a wizard or a hacker. I can love and be loved. I can defeat dragons and take down corrupt organizations. I'm whatever I want but still me, just beyond the pain of "real life" I can be myself without the fear of judgement or punishment. I'm myself, truly and freely without exception. I'm loved and excepted for whoever and whatever I am.
It is truly interesting.
I am truly interesting.
Is it real? I think so.
Just because I'm the only one that can see it at times doesn't make it nonexistent. If it wasn't real then I don't believe it could make me feel the way it does.
If something isn't real how can it influence you?
Does it influence you? Then it's real. At least it's real to you. And that's what matters. Who cares if someone else thinks it isn't. That's not what matters.
Anyway...
Enough of existential matters, if I keep this up I'm gonna turn into some sorta philosopher or something haha.
Quite honestly my day to day is boring as hell. Other than my mind I think the only interesting thing is writing and reading.
Creation, that's interesting. Art, writing things like that. YouTube; there's a creation outlet.
My interesting is... well I guess I'd say it's my stories, whether written, drawn or mental. I like those.
Apparently I have an affinity for words. Not, of course, spoken. Speaking is hard, I stutter and lose breath. It's just not the same through the air. Through my hands, through written words, digital or otherwise is where my supposed talent lies. Through the murals of description, the flow of grammar, the labyrinth of words.
For so long I've felt empty and numb. Emotions are tiring, numbness was just easier. It was just so much easier to act, to pretend. To play at feeling emotions to show but not truly feel. It was just easier, easier than feeling the pain.
But words, words made me feel. I started to yearn for emotions and I began to heal. I felt again. I'm not whole, far from it but I'm better and working towards wholeness.
I started to write, I longed to create worlds. I did. But still I wanted to be a part of them. To be one with my creations. But this is not possible. So I continue to make my worlds and now I share them.
Which is terrifying.
Though I am faceless and mostly anonymous these stories are still a part of me. Little bits and pieces of my soul bare for all who find them to see.
Just like this.
So strange.
And yet I still do it because I want my stories to touch people the way they touch me. To have them be a safe space for people, a comfort.
Isn't it strange?
I think... if they could be that even if it's just for a single person I could be content. For that's why I continue not just for my own benefit but for others as well. I hope that my own comfort comes through my works and reaches those who read them.
Like a hug.
Isn't it strange?
Ah but such is existence.
I've gone on long enough, this has turned lengthy.
I'm finished with this for now.
