Crisis of Breath
I feel disconnected from the world around me anymore; I’m not depressed, so stop fucking thinking it now, but I feel just about completely numb to anything and just about everything in my life. There are exceptions, I’ll admit, because I couldn’t much exist without the capacity for some kind of feeling, one way or the other, but those moments are fleeting - and honestly, even when they do occur, I wonder if I’m not acting through them. Dancing some disgustingly thin line between what I’m really feeling, and what I’m telling myself to feel.
I am, without a doubt, a commensurate actor. And it’s fucking frightening.
I don’t really know how to explain it. When I was younger, as most boys tend to do, I put up walls for myself to keep nice and warm and safe; masks that let me be someone else. Open, careless, and absolutely goddamn free. I thought, anyway. Time wears away all walls, and you start to realize that people aren’t afraid of who you really are; in fact, people have probably been wanting to see that person for a long, long time. But what happens when you fit a role so often, and so well, that it becomes you. Method acting in the extreme, I guess. But on the other hand, what if it’s really who you are? And that’s my problem. I don’t know when I stopped being real, if ever I was or wasn’t.
And everything in my life, because of that and some other things, is spinning wildly out of control - inappropriately and uncomfortable out of control. I guess it’s an identity crisis of sorts; see, I’m not a good person. I’m really not. I’m greedy, and self-serving, and I’m honestly vicious when it comes to being wronged. Or even sometimes just because. I’m not a horrible person either, though. I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, and every time I do something obviously benevolent, or ridiculously wrong, I wonder about whether I’m really feeling good or bad about it, because it doesn’t ever seem to feel concrete. It’s like my shoulder people went from “angel” and “devil” into “androgynous thing of unfeeling.” Nothing seems like it should - not when it should be real, and not when I’m making it fake.
I guess it comes down also to a matter of how I’m put together. I’ve never been a very compassionate person; I feel ridiculously less than most people tend to do. Everyone knows that. -I- know that, and it’s a shame, because I don’t’ think that anything’s ever going to taste as flavorful, you know? That I’ll never feel as actually alive as I should, because I’m built to be a little dulled around the edges. And maybe that has something to do with it, but you’d think that in those rare moments that I felt something - ANYTHING - it’d be something solid, and concrete, and fucking real.
And honest.
I’m not going anywhere with this. I just feel hollowed out; not a husk, but not much of a person, either. It’s like the only honest thing about me is that I’m blatantly chaotic and obviously free-spirited. That’s the only thing I can realistically cling to. My inability to stick to one thing. My need for change and motion. Gotta have the fucking ocean, right? Can't settle on the mountains.
I need sleep. Night.