I don’t feel like myself.
I’m sitting in the same bed that I grew up sleeping in. I’m home but I’m not me. I feel like I lose a little bit of myself when I come back from a new place. Or maybe the pores of my soul collect the dust from the lands before I part.
I’m conflicted, uncertain and disturbed. scrambling for the familiar, I’m losing count of the things I can call mine.
I guess when you’re 20, it gets harder to diagnose a spur of sorrow that makes way into your mind. It’s a little unnerving to give meaning to the ache that makes your chest feel like it’s caving in. I guess it’s because when you’re 20, you’re not hurting because of an innocent heartbreak caused by the neighbourhood boy who never liked you the way you did. Of course, that’d be too stupid right?
You know better. You’ve learn’t through time. You’ve seen how it works and you’re certain you’ve grown above those highschool heartbreaks. Then one day, all your of your dejections trace a way back into your head all at once, and you begin to wonder if the weight of all that you’ve been through is what crushes your chest for that split second. That intriguingly canny classmate in 9th grade who fancied a little more wit than what you possessed, that football wiz kid who thought of you as just another one of the red team girls, that best friend who got way out of your league at some point of your stupid adolescence and finally the boy who just made you question all that you learnt from your previous woes, a few minutes back.
I guess when you’re 20, it’s the forgotten miseries that ooze out, as a shiny new dagger pokes a fresh wound into the soul you thought you had strengthened through these years. It’s a little shameful to see your being come crumbling down when all this while, you boasted of the age maturing you up into a sound, reasonable person.