When sometimes things go out of hand, and I lie back against the not so comfy seat, with the safety buckles on, because they’ll slap you a fine of RM300 if you don’t, and get so nauseous and claustrophobic, with iron sides closing in, closing in.
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Sometimes I get jealous, when I can’t draw as well, can’t write as well, as unwell as I think I do. And I hate myself for it, because these two things are the things I love doing best, and when there are those with better, better. Ah.
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I like doing work, I like doing stuff you’ve placed upon me, but I do not like the expectations that follow, because I do all in my pace, I do all that I can, and when I cannot fulfill that tower that you’ve constructed on me, I flail, I break things, I scream. Alone, where no one can hear me, and I smile and I apologize to you.
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The thing that I hate the most, the thing I’ve long not heard, for a long, long time. Is when there are screams and yells, and violence, and sounds of skin upon skin – not in a nice way – pushing, grating. I pretend not to want to understand, I pretend not to be listening, I pretend to know nothing, like I’m just a kid, without knowledge of the real world. I pretend that I’m not huddling, hugging myself in a corner, wishing, wishing. Praying.
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I wonder if that dream was one from the Devil, or one from my heart. Because my worries and fears all came pouring out in the deep, deep sea of doubt.
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When I’m done. I wonder if any of you will continue to see me as me. Or see the me with the facade, and never know what I truly am. Like so many of you. Like so many of you who do not understand.
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And always think that you do.
