They tell you you are beautiful and that you are sweet. You are important. You are desired. You will be young and beautiful and sweet and important and desired forever. You will always be you forever and ever. That’s what really matters.
But what if nothing matters to you? What if kind words were interchangeable with indifferent ones because they were the same to you? What if every I love you and I want you and I am your friend were the same thing as a politely exchanged, detached conversation on the weather with an aquaintance in passing?
Maybe you don’t want to be beautiful because it is impossible for you. You have never been beautiful or good. You have never been seen. You have never been truly loved or wanted. You have never been a real friend or had true friends. You have had varying degrees of delusions dressed up as entanglements. You have created a sense of obligation to a few more charitable souls out there than you. But you have never truly been beautiful or good. And you never will be.
Each day you are more of a wreck and a ruin. Each day the bitterness rises in the throat and in the thoughts. You tried to taste the sweetness out of life like a wild thing set loose in the civilized world. You demanded more beauty, more brightness, more poetry, more laughter, more color, more experience, more passion, more feeling… because you generated none of your own.
You are the shiniest object in the room sometimes, you are the subject of a thousand stories conjured up to sell the image of the woman who does not exist. There is always a mask to wear or an emotion to mimic or a world tragedy to feign interest in… just watch the others who react with actual feelings, and copy them. Pretend to care. Pretend to be a real person. Observe closely details of everyone and everything in the room you’ve set your sights on so you can charm them and win them over before they see you. Create a barrier of false intimacy to avoid a real one. Try to keep the emptiness inside you silent by filling it with one hundred unecessary things for the next twenty-four hours.
When they tell you that you are beautiful and that you are good, know they are lying.
They may be lying to themselves because they do not see you and can never know you, but they are lying. You know the truth, that is the one thing that makes you, you. You know you are bitter to the taste and there isn’t enough sweetness to ever blot it out. You know you are an ugly thing who cannot love and cannot care and does not want to. You know you are growing older and soon enough you will become invisible. You know you are insubstantial, you are nothing, and you no longer wish to pretend to want to be anything. You exist, you pass the time in pleasant occupations and distractions but they are not you and they remain outside of the cold heart of you.
You were not born for love. You were not made for adoration. And you do not care about the world or anyone in it. And you never have. The bitter truths are so much more palatable to one who wakes up one day from amnesia realizing they never had a taste for the sweet things in life. There is a freedom in finally recognizing yourself and accepting your fate… that nothing will ever happen to you that means anything at all to you. Pretending to care and to be alive and to chase beauty and desire where there is none feels like being buried alive.
Today you claw your way out. You see you are alone. You are not very human and not at all warm, to the touch nor to the memory. You are marble and stone and the sea. You are a looking glass, a mirror for others to see whatever they want reflected back onto them for a while until they grow bored and leave.
You were never really there and you are impercetible even to yourself. A ghost in your own body. A dream one lingers over for an afternoon until it slowly dissolves, until it was like the dream of someone else, until you swear you never dreamed it at all.
This is creative writing which contains many feelings and thoughts I have in my darker and more powerless moments but it is not reflective of me every moment of my life not is it a complete picture. It has a LOT of poetic license.