I am not entirely convinced that I exist.
Is it possible to be a figment of one’s own imagination?
I’m not quite sure that I really belong anywhere. I kind of feel like I’m not here, physically. I can feel my hands move and my scratchy eyelids open and close over gritty eyeballs and even my heart beating somewhere beneath all the layers of skin holding me together. But I mostly feel a cavernous space inside, as if I were a miniature Amy shaped galaxy within a humanoid shell.
Doesn’t make sense, huh? How can I be, and at the same time feel as if I’m not even here? My blindness irritates me, but marginally less than the glasses that don’t properly fit my face and that’s why I’m squinting as I type this.
The weight of expectation will be the death of me. Do this. Be that. Fit the mould. This whole goddamn world is so generic.
I just want to be held. Someone sing to me, quietly. Offer me some small comfort, a gentleness, a tenderness. Remind me of the sweet things. Soothe the wound of endless disappointment.