Ripples in Reality

Sometimes I do not know whether my life is a never-ending dream or a heartbreaking reality. On Wednesdays, I feel normal, whatever that normal may be. On Mondays I feel like a villainous imposter sent to destroy everything in my lonely path, yet, come Friday I feel like a beloved victorious hero set to conquer the world for the better, for the good. I feel as if I am both, maybe all, yet equally neither. Some days I feel everything, other days I feel absolutely nothing. Either which when I do, I feel it all entirely and yet, not at all. To remain myself, whomever I may be, I balance delicately between being present, to then dissociating altogether.

As such, my reflection does not reflect who I believe I am, and when it does, I dislike it. I wish not to look. My eyes capture deceit, searching for my truth indebted to the web of lies I have orchestrated. I lose all touch for it does not understand any feeling. I can never tell what is and what isn't. A glitch, a blip, or perhaps it's just familiarity, I do not know. Déjà vu haunts me and all the senses. Left becomes my right, right becomes my left, up is down and so on.

Chaos seeking stability. Stability hunting chaos.

Deciding is even worse. Yes, I want to cut my hair short, yes I want to grow it long. Yes, I want that piercing and yes, I will remove it tomorrow. I want to die, but wish to live and not exist entirely. To be the centre of attention to the unwanted ghost in the corner of the room. I never know which choice is the right one, so I make no choice at all. I never know which mask to wear, so I wear them all.

I miss being a child for this reason. How I would play pretend in my endless box of costumes. A princess, a warrior, a witch, a doctor. At least back then I had the guise of childhood, now I have nothing. Pondering over the looming question all children endure hearing; "what do you want to be when you grow up?" never who, just what.

The truth is, I didn't want to grow up; I wanted to stay in never-land, with the fairies, the lost boys and the pirates, avoiding life and everything that comes with it. Yet I couldn't wait to get here, to this moment, quenching the thirst for freedom. Freedom that is taxed. Now I know this is nothing more than a hollow myth. Growing up is a devastating trap, like a caterpillar to a butterfly, destined for, well, nothing. Fated to fly, however I wish I could stay cocooned.

Decisions, decisions.

And of course, decision making leads to me to think I live as I am a doppelgänger without the need of a twin. I am spilt between both. They are the same, but different. Two separate bodies, living entwined lives. Each feeling each other's pain and happiness, but never knowing which one is which. Reflecting everything and nothing. Both believing they are their true selves, when they are nowhere close. You would think having double the hands would make for light work, but when both pairs are idle, it is either utter chaos, or divine pleasure.

Perhaps this is why I became a writer, full of characters with many names and awkward faces, scared to leave the text off the page, but desperate to live elsewhere? Maybe I am my characters as they are me. A game of many faces. Am I the only one who feels like they are living a lie while reaching for the truth? God, I don't know and neither does he.

After all, aren't there a few versions are ourselves, for we change throughout our lives? Do we not change our faces depending on our place, whether public or private, friend or foe? Maybe the ones who know us truly are the ones who come to say goodbye. Re-telling memories over open buffets. They are the ones who decide whether you're a tragedy or a comedy; they are the ones in the end that write your story. Not you. That's if you know who you are. And the question is...do you?

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Author's Context: I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), so try not to worry. I am in therapy for this, and am actively working to better myself to figure myself out.

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