Faked it.


Why is it so hard to say those words out loud. I feel alone.

I feel the empty expanse between myself and other beating hearts. I feel the expanse between myself and the synpases that make the very world spin round. I feel the expanse between the words being said and the thoughts being heard and the emotion that threatens to swallow me piece by piece.

But I am running.

Little squares fill calendar pages, and messages fill inboxes, sweat fills pores, and flesh fills flesh. Yet I am alone. The more I try to fit in and fill myself up the more the wash of echo fills my soul.

Busy doesn’t mean human. It means avoidance. When I stop I feel. When I stop it all ebbs out from all the crevices I’ve been trying to fill. Disconnect is such a term that threatens missing out, it threatens lack of knowledge, it threatens inner voices to rise louder than the distractions I use to block them out. To disconnect is to connect.

Gasping for realisation, when it hits. The tears drip unconsciously, because all the filling is no longer and it is only feeling left and it hurts. It fucking hurts, like a lost laser scarring the eyes onlooking. It fucking hurts, like stubbing a toe – instantaneous and then it kinda fades away and the pain is absorbed into your bloodstream and it becomes a part of my fabric.

My fabric that is so full of chinks, of loose stitches and patches sewn on to save. My fabric that is handmade from all the beautiful things that feel like your whole life is incredible and you can’t imagine life getting any more fantastic, like the high you feel when in love. Or the fabric that is┬áhandmade when you only have your hands to hold it together and sometimes those very hands can be the things that tear it all apart.

I’ve got nothing to hide, but yet there is everything. Underneath it all, I think I mask who I am to myself more than anyone else. I faked it too hard, and now I can’t escape the boxes that I’ve built around myself.