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There’s a weight to me
Try telling myself that everything is okay, that the world is simply getting on with things, and that no matter what I seem to do it all feels like I am an awkward fit for it all. There’s a strange feeling, tugging at the edges every time I am around the world. Its almost as if I do not fit what the world needs or wants from me, as if everything I do or say is mismatched and not quite there. Maybe this is what neurodivergence looks like, or a lifetime of being happy with my own company and not really understanding how the rest of the world is. It tugs at the edges, especially when I try to make new connections. Is this loneliness, or simply the accumulation of the years, weathered into a me shape.
A round pebbles on the shore this accumulation of life ebbs and flows, one moment tossed against the shore to smooth the memories, make the them into weights both to keep the past in piles ready to access and stones to drag you under. Maybe the carefree version of me exists in the moments between the waves, the light as air walking on clouds that feels liberating; or, it’s the phase as I exist as me between the crashes and strife. Yet, in reality my perception is wrapped in anxiety, a knotted thorn twisting that I will tear myself apart if I twist one too many times.
There is no perfection, only making a smoother stone to round out the edges. Perfect is the enemy of the anxious, enemy…
