There are so many thoughts living inside me that I don’t even know how to dress them in words.
One thought chases the next.
I feel torn.
Between hope and hopelessness.
Between fear and courage.
Between doubt and trust.
Sometimes I laugh, and sometimes melancholy is my companion.
It wears me down and makes life feel so much heavier.
Where did I go?
Somewhere between the monotony of everyday life, the people who mistake passive-aggressive words for affection, and the loud pounding of my heart—I somehow lost myself.
Or did I?
Could it be that this is a rise?
That my life no longer has to suffer under a tire shredded by broken glass—
the one that’s been holding me back for years?
Or am I just dreaming, only to wake up disappointed once again?
These questions keep me up at night, and during the day, they drain me.
I’m exhausted—yet full of longing.
Where do I begin?
Where can I find genuine support?
But before I can answer those, completely different questions arise:
Who am I?
Why am I here?
What defines me?
Some say I’m loving.
Others say I’m arrogant.
Still others would call me lazy.
But those are just snapshots of my being.
Mental photographs taken in moments when emotions and feelings had the upper hand.
They are parts of me—but not the whole of me.
No one can truly say who I am, because I don’t even know that myself.
Even in moments when I’m alone, I have no idea who I really am.
When I read a book, I think I’m like one of the main characters.
Sometimes the character is brave, sometimes sad, sometimes passionate, sometimes angry.
I can relate to them all.
But who am I really?
Am I all of those things—or someone entirely different?
My mind is spinning with this thought, and the word “spinning” makes me want to light a cigarette.
I don’t talk to many people anymore.
They rarely go as deep as I do.
Small talk and superficial conversations were never my thing.
But in the past, I often spoke about the weather or other people—just so I could belong.
So I wouldn’t be the freak.
So I wouldn’t end up alone.
Even now, I often catch myself listening to or talking about meaningless stuff—
even though it bores me to death.
That surprises me.
I thought I had given up wanting to belong.
Or have I?
Humans want to belong.
But what’s the price we pay for that?
We give ourselves up.
We do what our family wants, even though their life doesn’t reflect the one we want to live.
We go to jobs we hate,
just to buy things we don’t need,
to impress people we don’t even like.
Just writing that sends a chill down my spine.
I still do it sometimes.
And often, I wonder:
Which group of people do I even want to belong to?
Which feels completely pointless—
because I should probably figure out who I want to be.
Or who I am.
But that’s not easy—at least not for me right now.
People say you can choose who you want to be.
But is that true?
Or just another distraction to avoid discovering who I really am?
