Centred

The centre of me feels stale like the loaf of bread I refused to throw out last week. The humdrum of consistency is making me restless and yet the slightest change will throw me off balance for weeks. I do not understand myself, I have never. Even now, writing this, I am doing it to prove I am worthy of being alive. I am exchanging my sentences for validation that I am allowed to exist, no matter how quietly or unremarkably. There is no emotion that cannot touch the sides of me, yet I am desperately afraid of feeling purposeless. I don’t want to talk, I don’t think I could catch the right tone.