It’s not that I’m easy to read; it’s that I wanted to be read.
And it could get pretty difficult sometimes, given my dysfunctional disposition.
I got a year older a few days ago, and I don’t really know if I indeed am changing, or just becoming more of who I really am. To be honest, I’m becoming more conflicted with my relationships with other people than otherwise. I used to be clear about who I want to be with and who I trust. I cherish everyone who tolerates my noise and quirkiness.
But now I feel like I don’t know anyone anymore.
I’m having a good time with interesting and fascinating strangers. Not occasionally, but on a regular basis.
Nothing can be more twisted than that, I reckon. I was happy––too happy. It’s a foreign thing to me. It’s not normal.
I always knew that this aversion, reluctance, and confusion stem from my constant fear of happiness. I’ve long thought about it. I was programmed to turn this feeling into some twisted thing or phobia. I’ve had my fair share of disasters following euphoric events—I’m always afraid that every time I get happy, the next day pays for it. Happiness it seemed always had a price. They only let you be this happy if they’re preparing to take something from you.
I know this fear has ruined and is ruining every genuine opportunity to savour these rare times, but I can’t blame myself. This world is cruel.
Am I happy? Yeah, for a little while. For many little whiles.
And I’m not sad.
And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.