Read It If You Want To, I Couldn't Care Less

At some time in my life I stopped being afraid of real things and started having fears of a more psychological origin. Maybe I just learned to phrase my fears better. Maybe no one is actually afraid or spiders or heights. Maybe what they’re really afraid of is what those things represent. Spiders mean getting bitten. Getting bitten leads to being sick or dying. Which boils down to fear of weakness and fear of death. Heights also mean death. Speaking in public leads to judgement, which in turn leads to possible rejection. Therefore, fear of rejection. This way we can reduce most phobias to simple concepts using better wording and a deeper understanding.

We can also love that which we fear. I can think of nothing more terrifying than people knowing me. There’s this rush of adrenaline when someone actually figures me out that definitely chill me to the bone. If we boil it down…I don’t even know if I want to boil it down. Think about it, I spend my days writing on the internet. You’re reading this, and this communication only feels like a conversation because you’re reading it in the future present. Right now, I’m writing like somebody in the future is going to read this, and I don’t even know if that’s actually true. You…you don’t know me. I don’t know me. I don’t know you. It’s a circle of ignorance. We’re all children, playing hide-and-seek on a day with very thick fog. We can hear our voices, and in a way, we’re all just trying to find out where we are. But we can’t see a goddamn thing, and for some that is best. And oh god, I’m definitely turning an un-turned stone right now. Even if you read the stuff I write, it most probably washes off your brain in a few seconds.

I think what I’m most afraid of is of what I’m living right now. Holding on to some imaginary friend who reads my stuff, who somehow wants to know what I’m feeling. Whining all the time about being rejected, unloved, ignored, devoid of any ambition. Standing in a forest of black trees on a moonless night with no path to follow and a bunch of question marks at my feet. Reading and re reading what I’ve written in the hopes that, the next time I read it, it will appear much less pathetic.

Think about it, how weird is this. I’m staring at a monitor. Pressing some keys in my keyboard, that send an electrical pulse down some cables and then get translated by the computer into symbols our brain has been programmed to read in packs called words. I skipped a whole lot of stuff because, simply put, I don’t want to write it. Everything we experience in our lives is unbearably weird and foreign. I mean, rain? Is anyone else freaked out by the fact that water is falling from the sky?

You won’t talk to me. You only read. I’m not even sure if you read at all. No one will talk to me. No one. Then again, isn’t it strange that there actually exists other people? Do I need people to talk to me? You don’t know me. You probably don’t exist. Maybe you exist, but not in this exact second. You cannot read this while I write this. You don’t know me, and that pains me sometimes. But no one knows me. I’m a very hard puzzle to crack. I guess I understand. I don’t know you. I don’t know whether you’re amazing or average or if you know how to cook or not.

You know what sucks? Realizing that everything you thought was real, let me rephrase that, everything you HOPED was real, not having ever existed. Realizing that your whole life you were trying to live by ignoring reality, and you can’t even do that right. Realizing that acting like something is something else is not going to get you through your day. Realizing that words like purpose, meaning, love, destiny, happiness, completeness, belonging and peace are just that; words. Realizing that you have to live life the way everyone else lives it: Routinely getting by day by day with what they have, settling, unambitiously, taking pills.

Even if I do understand, you all seem incredibly weird.

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