retreatSometimes I feel like a fraud. Sometimes I think, this can’t be real. I can’t be real.
But it’s only in my realness that I don’t feel real.
Sometimes I wonder if I exist outside of my own mind. My world exists in my mind – why shouldn’t I? Do other people see me? Perceive me? Understand me?
That’s when I feel like a fraud, because I see that the person other people see isn’t really me. But it’s the only me that they know. So it must be real.
But it isn’t.
The more I invest in something, the more I want to run from it. It hurts. Too much. To care so deeply about something but to have no one know you care.
To ignore my Cause is to ignore me.
But maybe I don’t exist.
Advance. Retreat.
Advance. Retreat.
Advance. Retreat.
Retreat. Retreat. Retreat.
To all appearances, I’m doing well. Nearly half my evenings are spent with other people – people I love and enjoy and generally am glad to know. I am slowly learning the art of idle chatter as I pretend I’m interested in the lives of workmates whose names escape me.
Small talk. Hah. It’s ridiculous, that something called small could be such an insurmountable mountain, a fierce battle from which I rarely emerge victorious.
Let me hide in my bunker. Crawl into my shell. Disappear from the world.
Retreat. Retreat. Retreat.
Why am I to be the strong one? I am weak, so very weak.
Why am I to be the practical one? I live in daydreams, fanciful daydreams.
Why am I to be the nurturing one? I can’t even figure out how to properly care for myself.
Words used to be my world. Stories, songs, books, journals. But my reading comprehension is dipping. I miss things. I lose track.
I’m tired.
How do people do it, survive in this world? The more I engage with people, the more exhausted I become.
Would it be so terrible to find me a small cottage somewhere, and live the reclusive life of which I’ve always dreamed? Why is community so important, anyway? Why is this the big battle from which I am unable to escape?
Retreat. Retreat. Retreat.
I need a break.
Sometimes, I don’t like myself when I get like this. No, not sometimes. Always. I hate being vulnerable.
But I am like this.
I wish I were perfect, but I’m not.
I wish I were better with people, but I’m not.
Yes, I can be charming. I can be outgoing. I can be warm and welcoming.
But sometimes, it all feels so false.
Why are people so hard to love? Why do I love them anyway? Why do I care if I love them or not?
Why do I tell myself it doesn’t matter if they don’t love me back? Shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t it matter? To bestow my affection on someone is no easy task – so why am I so willing to throw it away on those who don’t care?
Why do I even ask these questions?
Why can’t I stop caring about people when they exhaust me, they frustrate me, they pull me in directions I do not wish to go, nor believe I should go?
Just let me be alone. Let me sit and think and be alone.
World, you tire me.
So I retreat. Today, tomorrow, this week. I retreat. Lock myself away. Disappear into silence.
But I will never stop fighting.
I’m too idealistic.
