Originally written on December 17th, 2015
As I sit down to write this, I have a long wait of two hours ahead of me before I find out whether I made it to the interview or not. It’s funny how things don’t seem to work out for some people, no matter how hard they try. I guess it has something to do with the fact that some of us are born this way. Some of us are broken to begin with. And we spend all our lives to fix ourselves so we can be like everyone else and find joy in little things in life. Because when we look around, everyone seems happy. Everybody looks normal.
So you try and try, to make friends, to laugh, to joke around, to go through life easily. That doesn’t happen though. People who are born broken aren’t meant to be fixed. We can try and try but we can never be content. That is our struggle. We try to be normal. There are good days and bad days but it becomes bearable.
Then something happens.
Your friends fight. Your friends leave. They move on. The guy you though was ‘the one’ spits in your face. He gets married. To a girl you used to call your friend. Everything seems to spin out of control. You don’t know what to do. Nobody has time to talk to you. They don’t owe you anything anyway. Your best friend moved halfway across the world two years ago. She’s got new friends and no time. You were never the person who could get it off your chest anyway. You made wrong decisions and thought they were right.
Now, everything is messed up.
Everyone used to have a worse grade than you. Now all of them have great jobs. They are travelling the world, for leisure and work, and you are stuck in a dead end desk job that pays shit.
You knew the feeling before. When you felt like that one person took your heart out of your chest, flung it across the floor and stomped on it. You used to feel like that was the worst thing you could ever feel. But now you know better. You know there are worse ways your heart can hurt. But you can’t die. That’s what sucks the most. no matter how bad it hurts and your chest feels constricted to the point where taking every breath is a conscious effort on your part, you just don’t die. Hurting never killed people. Neither did heartbreak. It should but it doesn’t. So buckle up. Because you have to go on. That’s the only choice you have.
I saw him first when I was five or six.I don’t remember what he looked like back then. I remember when we were eight and sitting together in class and our mathematics teacher punished us because we were supposed to do better in the test that day. I remember how shy he was when we were thirteen. That’s all I remember about him when we were thirteen.
I remember him when we were fifteen. When he talked to me and I snubbed him away. I remember him when we were seventeen and eighteen and twenty-two and twenty-four.
But that is the problem.
I am the only one who remembers him. He doesn’t exist otherwise. To me he was so real I couldn’t believe for a very long time that he was a figment of my imagination.Why and where did he come from? Imagination was my only consolation when I was growing up, but imagination ruined my life too.
How did that happen?