What bugs me most is that I don’t have anything to point to—I don’t have tangible proof of anything good. Sure, I can go through the motions: I write cursive in pocket books, dab lip balm on cracked skin, read about stargazer lily flowers, watch the trees outside while folding laundry indoors, create desperate attempts at poetry, practice piano until my fingers are numb, huff out a few sets of push-ups. I swing along like any other person trying to live a little. And yet this feeling of incompetency—imposter syndrome? inferiority complex? something worse—I know where I stand and I know my value, but it’s not enough. Perhaps it never will be.
(This is all from a spiritually detached point of view, sort of like watching the ocean from the shore, idle and heavy-breathed. I’m trying to figure this out logically. Is that possible?)
I feel that I’ve gotten better at caring, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. It hurts a lot. Ceaseless empathy can result in an absent sense of self—oh. I wonder if that’s it. I’ve been holding onto everything and everyone except myself.