The Crushing Weight

When I was 5, I used to think I was special. I got invited to reading activities because they said I sounded so good when I read. Then, I started writing, and I wrote everything, even when it wasn't good. I wrote. My parents always bought books and writing pads because they thought from it, I would become something.

Something.

It´s been more than a year since I wrote, and it´s not that I didn´t have something to write; when AI came, I felt all my words die. 

Now that I am at a point in my life where everything feels so strange. Like I´m not myself, and that the sound that I make and the words that I say are not mine anymore.

Tonight, while I was eating my dinner, I felt a strange jolt of pain. The words, you can keep them for so long, but it cannot be helped.

So, here we are.

As a pathological people pleaser, I’ve been lying to myself the past couple of months, saying that I am getting better and that I’m living my dreams, when in truth, I’ve never been so lost in my life. I thought going to a foreign land would make me okay. Partly, it has; I get to see a different world, I have the freedom to explore, learn more about myself, and get creative. But the more I see the world, the more I realise I am stupid.

I have these little notes of things I want to say just in case my boss from work calls for a career coaching session. There’s this sentence I wrote a few weeks back saying, “I feel like I will be stuck here for life and will never grow from this.”

The thing is, I’m not just talking about work. 

It appears that even in life, I will never be good enough at all.

As I go back to writing, I wonder if I would ever write about love once again. My friends always want to experience the rollercoaster ride of being in love. But all I want is to unearth all the excitement that died when I started failing at being in love.

For months, I've wondered if the grass isn't greener elsewhere and if this is all there is. What if there's nothing for me here and I'm not cut-out for this world?

Isn’t it painful that I had to wake up one day and realise I cannot always be the thoughtful, hopeless romantic, cutesy, easy-going kind of person, when my 5-year-old self expects me to become ‘something,’ and yet we are nowhere near anything?

And so, I bought myself books and a writing pad laptop in the hopes that I would become ‘something’

 

But, what if I´m just exhausted?