Everybody seems to have a story; something interesting to come up in conversation.
They talk like they really mean the things that fall out of their mouth, like the words are the rainbow colored tassels shooting out of magicians sleeves.
But it is magic, to speak, and to have your voice be heard.
Sometimes I speak and not a soul looks back at me, like I've only whispered when I tried my best to scream;
Never coming to their ears across the wide room, the gap between the worlds we live in.
When I doubt myself in my ability to convey what I truly mean, my voice stands idly waiting for a day that isn't coming.
Waiting for a lull,
an opportunity that it knows it wont take
even if it was given.
Why does it try so hard when the obviously easier path is to sit and submit itself to the silence.
Sequester any emotion or outburst until all your left with is the shell of someone who had an opinion.
Who let it slip and never picked it up again.
Who forgot what it's like to live.
And is never likely to learn it again.
I question myself daily on the knowledge that if I tried I could be happy, if I wanted i could speak, if I needed to I would.
But the perpetual shushing of thoughts in my brain, heavily predisposed to
the sit-still metric.
Is still unaided and still unmedicated.
Dad says, "You have to learn to pick your battles", and im sitting here wondering if he knows that everyday is mandatory —
that I don't get to pick whether or not waking up feels right for the day.
That I don't get to pick to put effort into projects for them to be abandoned
That I don't get to pick to put everything I have
into the people who cant follow me home.
That I don't get to pick being grateful for what im given
Because I should be, And i am.
But it feels forced, like small talk.
