There are days when my heart retreats into itself — clouded, impenetrable, emotionless, stoic, resolute. These moments happen quite regularly. But I am not made for them. I’ve been blessed with a lot, and maybe I’ve thrown it all away. That’s what the mind begs me to believe.
I’m not a vindictive person. But there does exist a loose, mental list — a list of people who’ve hurt me. I wish them no harm — truly, I don’t. I only hope to show them that despite their transgressions, I was able to rise above it all. Not out of spite. Just to prove — perhaps mostly to myself — that I survived.
But lately, my heart has had enough. Writing goodbye notes while inebriated is not the sign of a healed or healthy heart. In today’s world, sharing too much is too much. To care too deeply is abnormal. I’m not asking for certainty. I’m not asking for guarantees. All I want is a sign — a sign that something good can work for me, too.
In my heart, I carry a deep pain. All I’ve ever known is how to push through it. I’ve not run away from it; instead, I’ve run into it. I’ve run into it with full ferocity in the hope that the unstoppable force will be able to shatter past the seemingly immovable object. I’ll let you know how that works out, it’s still a work in progress.
How wild that a spiral can be triggered by something as trivial as losing a game of football. I know I blame Dad for never telling us if he’s proud of us. I wonder if he ever is. But even more so, I wonder if I’ll ever be proud of myself.
Nothing is ever enough.
To settle is to be mediocre.
To be content is to accept complacency.
To slow down is to willingly embrace stagnancy.
I don’t know what this life holds in store for me. I told myself that if things didn’t go as anticipated — if I faced rejection again — I’d be kind to myself. I’d survive. I’d be okay. I hope that’s true. That’s really all I can say right now.
Still, I do things with the hope that somehow, somewhere, they’ll be reciprocated. That someone will notice. That I won’t always be the one reaching first. And maybe that makes it conditional — selfish, even. But that’s not why I do what I do. (At least, not entirely).
But still — remember what I said:
To show too much is too much.
Because caring about people, remembering the little things, loving loudly — all of that is now out of fashion.
Nonchalance is the name of the game. Either you feign it from the outset, or you’re beaten and battered into indifference. Ah, matters of the heart. Coping mechanisms. Such a fun time.
After all, we live in a world where people would rather talk to ChatGPT than each other.
What am I supposed to do when people demand vulnerability, but only in the “right amount”? Or the “right kind”? You need to be open and honest — but not too honest. You need to care and be affectionate and loving — but not too much. You need to laugh and bring joy — but again, not too much.
Because remember: to show too much is… too much.
All the world’s a stage — because all I see is performance. An extravagant production of carefully calculated actions, aesthetics, opinions, and relationships. I’m past all of that. At 24, I want more. I want what’s real. I want to see it all — the good, the bad, the ugly, and the downright absurd.
But I’m getting ahead of myself again, aren’t I? Because life has made this lesson clear to me:
I’m asking for too much.
It won’t work, my friend.
Too much… is too much.
Melan-jolly 