“It is the individual who knows how little they know about themselves who stands the most reasonable chance of finding out something about themselves before they die.” – S. I. Hayakawa For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt a bit queer, somewhat atypical. My dad would say I have an old soul.…
“It is the individual who knows how little they know about themselves who stands the most reasonable chance of finding out something about themselves before they die.” – S. I. Hayakawa
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt a bit queer, somewhat atypical. My dad would say I have an old soul. My mum concluded I am the reincarnation of her mum. My siblings call me weird, the good type of weird, they’d say. The sane kind. I never follow trends, so my friends would call me eccentric. Strangers just stare and label me according to what they can comprehend or what they think they comprehend. I don’t mind. It helps me try to figure it out too. The lingering thought, the feeling that puts me on a different pedestal.
The one where I try to understand people beneath the surface level. You know, underneath that mask they wear comfortably like a second skin.
The one that makes me feel happy, a bit too content when someone pours out their troubles to me like I am a bucket beneath a tap waiting to be filled. The joy of helping people, of figuring out things for them, of being a problem fixer because there is a satisfaction that comes with feeling needed, dependable and reliable. My personal high from something I am exceptional at.
Or maybe it’s because I feel incapable of being understood, so I decide to settle for understanding others. Continuously, an endless cycle of being the listener and never the listenee. Or maybe I am just scared that these things I am trying to figure out, the problems I have to fix, I have to do so on my own. I am scared that they might be overwhelming to the girl next door or drive the potential bae away if I decide to let them swim in the sea of my thoughts. Maybe, I am scared they may drown and I am no murderer.
I am trying to figure out why it’s never a black or white affair to me, why the area shaded grey has always beckoned to me, caught my attention, tickled my fancy since I turned 12. There has to be an underlying reason for everything that happens in life. That I am never satisfied when things seem so simple, because I believe that life is originally complicated. I mean God made man from dust and earth and made woman from a piece of man’s rib. And how did just two people populate the earth? It is damn complicated, humans just choose to simplify it themselves, a nice comfortable self-made bubble. Correct me if I am wrong because there’s not much fun on this side of the room.
I am trying to figure out if anyone out there is capable of receiving the kind of love I have to offer. The kind where I fall hopelessly and helplessly because I want to be vulnerable too. I want to release all the tension that defines me. I want to speak with my eyes and hear with my heart. I want to wear his shirt and oversized slippers and walk around the house with my hair in a messy pony-tail and no make-up on. I want to drown in an ocean of compassion. I want to be consumed in all entirety and some more because it’s a bit lonely on this side of the room too.
I am trying to figure out why I can’t spend too much time in loud places, why my playlists don’t have Terry G’s songs on them. Why 30 Seconds To Mars is my favorite band and One Republic’s lyrics liberate me or how I listen to The Script for inspiration sometimes and dance to The Chainsmokers or Zedd after a long ass productive day. I’ve been banned from using the aux cord in all my friends’ cars. They don’t understand why I listen to “sad” songs.
They don’t understand why I love to see movies in the cinemas alone. Why black is my favorite color. Why I am afraid of heights but I swear I must skydive before I die. Or why I can’t tolerate being driven too fast, but behind the wheels, I channel my inner Michael Schumacher. I don’t understand it either. The many battles I fight within me, if you could peek into my soul, you might see scars that’d scar you. I’m trying to understand why I hardly cry when I get hurt. Do I not have empathy? Or have I found a different way to cope with all the pain I feel? A prescription of silence and deep breaths.
If you happen to figure it all out before me, please let me know. In the meantime, Hi, my name is U2 and I am not who you think I am. Also, on this journey to self-discovery, serendipity would be a bonus…