The Devil All the Time

8

There are some days where I wonder whether the meaning that I derive from my simple everyday life shuttles me into a place of conformity. The constant fear of the thoughts of others permeating into my consciousness is what makes me question my own thoughts. It even works the same way with my own sexuality. Sometimes I wonder to myself whether I am blindly following the wants of my For You pages. Can I feign the want of a relationship with a woman? Is my attraction still valid after I've liked a man? There are certain methods that I try to use to ascertain with certainty what exactly I categorize myself as, until realizing that I don't exactly fit into a certain category.

    I wonder if this makes me special or just weird. It goes without saying that there are many categories of people in this world, and some of which don't fit properly into theirs. My question is: What do they become? Is life happier after conforming, or is it easier just to be alone, or with the choice few who know you. Truly understand who you are and what you stand for? I don't exactly know why I sit here at this computer screen writing words that no one will ever read. If anyone were ever to get a hold of this then I would surely be shipped directly to a mental institution, and sometimes I wonder if that is exactly where I belong.

    This classroom is smarter than me in so many ways. They are people who know their category, their lot in life, what they love, what they dream, and what they aspire to be. I feel like an imposter. Like I have cheated a very set and sacred system to sit here with them, failing where they succeed. What am I compared to them? I've never claimed to be the most intelligent, never claimed to be the best in my class, because of course I know that this wasn't true.

    If it was, what exactly would I be? Do I find meaning in intelligence, or in the leaves falling from the trees onto my head. Do I believe in fate or chance, love or hate, God? What are we but temporary gods? We spend our short lives here, to accomplish a goal, or a nonexistence goal, and where do we go after our lives here are spent?

    Here I sit with a trophy sitting in front of me, just reminding me of the screams of my mother, her kicks on the floor upstairs, as she screamed. My dead grandmother of a day and a half lying peacefully on the bed as I hyperventilate on call. A self earned trophy is all I've ever wanted, only for it to represent the very moment that keeps me awake at night. Here I am, lost, in a room full of people reaching toward their destiny, panicking. This golden statue mocking the moment when my mother stood flat faced in the garage, while the paramedics dragged my dead Nana's body out of the garage, saying that they found a grey powder. Later learning that she had given up life, given up my brother, for bliss. I wonder... is what I feel anger or sadness? What is the rest of my time here supposed to look like? Why does my first true trophy seem to cause me so much pain?