Truth be told, I am weary and worn-out. To my credit, I have done a good job of looking the exact opposite, fooling a lot of people who do not know any better. But I am as weak as human beings come, and it doesn't take much to pull me down. The irony is, this sensation of slow descent -- of surrendering -- feels so comforting. For all the bad things I know this entails, just giving up seems the right thing to feel. How wrong can it be to close one's eyes and go to sleep and ignore the cacophony of life outside one's head? It doesn't feel sinful at all, nor do I feel I am doing a disservice to mankind, considering I have very little to offer to begin with.
Honestly, I detest it when favors are asked of me. It feels like an iron grip on my wrist, pulling me back up the surface and forcing my eyes open, "Wake up! I need to use your life for a little while." It scratches at my heart, but I put on an elaborate masquerade because it's easier to blend in, get things over and done with, and I don't have to explain myself anymore. "Why are you sad?" "I don't know."
For now, there is a little comfortable corner in my mind where I can retreat and tend to my wounds. When I am not out and about, pretending to look, act, feel like how I was brought up to be, like how I was expected to be, I am in my corner, curled up, and thinking that someday, the masquerade will be over.
And oh, how it hurts. I feel I am already spread out so thinly. The pale grip of fingers on my wrist visible in the dark, I don't want it pulled anymore. I feel so weary, and worn-out, and so very, very exhausted.
