I’m not usually one to delve into sadness, or at least I don’t like delving into things that disturb me. This is one of them. It’s not the on-the-surface one with the obvious tear tracks and red eyes, or where my head is on the shoulder of someone else’s. It’s a sadness that misaligns with the personality my world knows, the personality that I came to be.
After she arrived from her seminar, my aunt asked me if I wanted to explore Freiburg even more. “Go around the city. You have still so much to discover — behind the Munster, or at the back of the Theater.” Don’t get me wrong, I love to explore, I really do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have scoured through London three weeks ago with my eternally out-of-battery phone. My feet will never know that kind of pain I went through. But instead, I replied with, “I have explored enough.”
Lately, this has been rippling within me for the past few days, and the vigor I used to have back in August waned. I’m not nearly as cheerful as I liked to be, or at least I still am but more measured and more restrained. It’s like my growth is measured in seconds instead of days and everyday I am bound to the one thing I hate to explore: my mind.
I can’t even compose this thing properly because I am torn between wanting to share this truth with the world and wanting still to hide it. I am surrounded by people, the very ones I love, and yet I feel as though I am imprisoned, like I owe my happiness to them or something to that extent. And I am bound to them through the words they say, and their opinion matters too much to me.
Words are what I love, and yet somehow all I want is for them to go away. Everywhere I go, my mind tells me otherwise, and I perceive people silently watching me as I go about my routine. I wish I could make them understand what it’s like to be lonely, to be trapped by your own mind into thinking that people have to like you or treasure you and that their opinion matters so much it’s Law. I wish– I wish that they didn’t matter. I wish that the strangers who are supposed to serve their purpose of being people I shouldn’t have to know stay that way. Yet what they say matters so much to me, and I hate that. I hate that I have to depend on them all the time, that I have to harp on their words and praises. Why do I have to be praised to feel secure? Because my own mind does not do the same thing.
I try so, so hard to be the person I have to become, and in the process the saddest thing is I don’t even know who I am anymore. Nomads do still exist, and I’m not talking about the ones that leave their homes. My soul is an undefined state and all I want for it is to go back home — home in a sense that it is finally where it belongs, and it definitely is not in this city at all.
Don’t get me wrong, I have met so many lovely people here, and I have changed in some way or another but I’m still finding it so difficult to be restrained. I have to because people don’t understand the way I live and breathe, that I have to have someone beside me not for the sake of having someone per se but because I want them to be. But again, it’s not the people’s fault. They, of course, see me as an outsider and I, in turn, have to adjust to them. When they throw labels at me, it’s okay. They just can’t find a single word to describe my personality and it’s their attempt to understand who I am, even if they don’t at all get it. But I wish they did. I really wish they did,
(I don’t know what this entry’s about at all, but I’m just spewing thoughts. This is what it’s like to be in my head. It’s kinda hard to figure out. I just hope someday that I will finally be content with what I have because I just yearn for something I have yet to seek, and in the process, all I want to do is hide.)