27 year old ex-art major.
I’ve been writing this story for a long time, it’s lengthy and boring as hell but I need to tell it.
I woke up one morning and didn’t know who I was, my tea didn’t taste like tea anymore, my face wasn’t mine when I looked in the mirror, it was much older (a bit fatter) and I craved coffee and silence instead of the noise I could hear inside my head. The many insults I’ve heard over my lifetime replay themselves every time the lights go out at night and they age me. I see them on my face and on my body when I look in the mirror to ply my make-up on.
I thought I was happy once. When they all thought I would amount to something, when they thought I would be an artist or just something special, I worked hard to prove them right, I worked to make them proud of me… but then I failed a huge chunk of my dissertation and dropped out. It took a long while afterwards to realise that I’ve never been me, just a hollow husk of me filled with what every one expected and wanted me to be. But I couldn’t create art I could copy it, make a version of it, but it was never truly mine and I couldn’t write a dissertation based on lies.
Same applies to every aspect of my life, I mould myself to what I think people will like, what would entertain them. My family are all loud laughers, so I laugh loudly with them. My real laugh is nerdy and quiet, almost a snort, but I’m the only one who’s ever heard it. I have some friends who like to drink and I drank along with them, I didn’t want to, I wasn’t having fun, but it was what they wanted. I was ‘boring’ if I didn’t.
I’m getting better at knowing myself, if I don’t want to do things now, I don’t. Call me boring, well I like boring. I like silence.
I need the lights to stay on, I’ve taken to leaving the TV on when I sleep to drown out my thought processes that lead to unhappy things, the positivity needs to flow and life needs to move forward.
I know one thing. I am a creator, of what I haven’t discovered yet.