It's 4am. It is cold. The bed sheets do nothing to hinder the effects of the temperature. I will my phone to buzz to life, for someone to come to a sudden realisation that I need them to speak to me. I need to tell someone. I have forged all my friendships on pictures. Forged them on images of myself as I presented them, neatly wrapped with a moral and a punchline. I am none of those stories. Even those I have held closest I have woven intricate back stories of tragedy and success so they may treat me as I wish. It's lonely. Pulling people into a narrative of you. Drawing them close enough to see your scars but those scars are just stretch marks and that narrative is precisely that, a story. Fabricating yourself for each new person that comes along sure leaves your parts worn. Maybe if I just messaged them and came clean, told them that all I ever really wanted was for them to like me. Maybe they'd understand and come clean about their own little stories, their own forgeries, their own narratives. Maybe we'd be closer than ever or maybe we'd realise that none of us ever really knew each other. I've been so eager to show people who I am for the past 21 years but I can't look at myself in the mirror. Perhaps my fear is not what people think of me. I am not afraid of losing anyone. I am afraid of finding myself, of mirrors and reflections and cracks in those pictures I have carefully painted of myself. It's 4am. I am cold. The bed sheets do nothing to hinder the effects of my temperature.
Created: Mar 06, 2015Recorded Document Media